


Obsidian Rooms Have Never Gone Well

by heyitsbee



Series: Self Indulgent DSMP — Tommy Apologist Edition [1]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon Divergent, Hurt, Pandora’s Vault, Some comfort, Why is tagging so difficult, be safe when reading, some mentions of suicidal thoughts n that so, this is really just self indulgent and painful, yep
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-23
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-13 14:40:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29652834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heyitsbee/pseuds/heyitsbee
Summary: It’s hot. Like, seriously fucking hot. The lava outside makes the entire cell grossly uncomfortable... not that being near Dream didn’t do that for Tommy already.He hated the prison. This was supposed to be his closure, not his Dream Sympathy Arc.TW//tense themes like suicide and PTSD! i will brush with the exile arc and how that affects tommy. be safe while reading!if any cc says they are uncomfortable, i will take this down without question.
Relationships: Clay | Dream & TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), No Romantic Relationship(s)
Series: Self Indulgent DSMP — Tommy Apologist Edition [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2179050
Comments: 30
Kudos: 187





	1. and as the lava spills down...

**Author's Note:**

> this is all written from tommy’s view! the only bits that aren’t are the italics; these are chat aka tommy’s “voices” in his head. with that, i hope this isn’t total garbage, and you enjoy reading.

The cell is hot. Stone that should be smooth and seamless feels sticky, inescapable, like flypaper. The stones are rough, knicks and tally’s covering the wall in random patches, and no matter how many hours Tommy spends analyzing them, he can’t seem to place even the slightest of patterns.

It doesn’t quite matter though. At least with all the little discrepancies it gives him something to do instead of speak to Dream. Though, he isn’t sure he could if he wanted to. After yelling for Sam over and over, he could feel the way his throat ached, the way his voice trembled. Even after an impromptu nap via heatstroke and stress, it still felt weak and aching. Rather that then speak to Dream.

Tommy spared said man a glance, noting that he was talking again. It seemed that was all Dream knew how to do, reminiscing and recounting his early tales of the SMP. Tommy imagined that being alone for so long made you want to talk until you physically couldn’t. Well, maybe not imagine as much as relate. He could still clearly remember his first night with Techno, first official night that is, sitting on a chest while the other tidied up. He’d talked until he could barely keep his eyes open, until his throat gave out. After all, there was so much to catch “Big Brother” Technoblade up on, so much to learn about how the anarchist was doing...

Now he only wondered why his fathers old friend hadn’t gotten rid of him sooner.

“—and then, oh you’ll like this Tommy, he does a somersault over my head and—“

Tommy zoned out again after barely a moment, staring at the lava that rolled down in front of the cell. It was an ugly shade of orange, wasn’t it? He could recall a time where he’d found nothing more fascinating than the alternating shades, the way it fizzled and popped. His first time in the nether, he’d found it beautiful, if sweltering. Now it just reminded him of exile.

Everything about this cell did, really. It was small, barely furnished. It was tight, too tight for one person much less two. The lava was just as ugly, just as tantalizing. Oh, and Dream. No one was coming... it was just Dream.

He glanced up just as said jailbird finished his story, letting out a sigh too content for a manipulator, and Tommy desperately wished Dream hadn’t gotten rid of his clock. He wished that the empty slot on the wall was filled with something that could tell him how long he’d fainted for, how much longer he’d have to wait.

_He’s not a bad person. Dream was our friend. It’s hot as hell in here. Is Sam okay? Is the prison okay? Jack is at the hotel. It’s Jacks hotel! Sam Nook!_

...

Time crawled by like a spider on soulsand as they sat. Tommy could feel his stomach aching, feeling a pang in his chest for how Dream had been eating only these raw, uncooked potatoes. They wouldn’t even stay cool a second—it was so sweltering that he could almost feel them turning to mush the second he accepted his few share.

“It’s terrible, isn’t it?”

It caught Tommy just off guard enough to look up at the other, and he could feel his heart thundering in his ears as he nodded a bit. This was terrible.. the conditions were poor, the crying obsidian was dying his shirt, the potatoes were—no... no. Dream deserved this. He was a terrible, terrible man. The worst one ever, quite possibly.

As if the (evil) man on the other side of the room could hear his thoughts, Dream let out a laugh.

“Oh, come on now Tommy. I’m sure you have more on your mind than just nodding, right?”

Tommy hesitated, holding his potato a bit tighter, his fingers sinking through a mushy skin. The voices in his ears were getting a bit loud, and he couldn’t help but give them their time to speak.

_Go into the lava. Go. Go. Run. Throw the potato. Call for Sam. Dream is bad, a bad man. Terrible man. Tell him. Talk to him. Tell him he’s a wrongen. Talk._

That didn’t seem terrible, maybe. He just had to remember how bad Dream was. If he didn’t forget that Dream was bad, then at the very least he could speak without getting all manipulated and shit.

“The cell is rather shit. Worse than old tnret... but it’s generous to say this is any bad as my exile.”

Dream gave a laugh that made his blood boil, and he slowly bit into his potato again.

“Fair enough. It’s definitely not as nice as your tent. You some decor at least, right? I don’t have snap streaks, but I’ve got my little tally’s on the wall. The fancy ones are from when I got visits.”

Tommy allowed himself to really look at the jagged carvings he’d studied since he’d realized just how hopelessly stuck here he was, finally noting the wiggly tally’s as visits. He could place the times of his, Sapnap’s, and Bad’s visits... though there were quite a deal of others that he didn’t understand. Maybe Sam talked with Dream sometimes?

He shifted up a little, noting how Dream moved to give him space. Though, he wasn’t letting Tommy near any of his journals. Well... maybe it was warranted after he threw the others in the lava.

_Aw, that’s sweet! Look, he’s giving you space Tommy. Do you really think Sam chats with him? Maybe Sam will figure everything out before the end of the week. This room is a bit small, huh? Y—_

“I know you’re not happy with our arrangement, clearly,” Dream spoke suddenly, cutting through the voices bouncing about in Tommy’s head, “But I really want to use all this time to show you how I’ve changed Tommy. Because I really have, I’ve changed. You can’t even imagine what all this time is doing for me.”

Tommy stayed silent a moment, processing. He usually thought as he spoke, but Dream... Dream brought out something in him that he didn’t know he had. And that wasn’t a good thing. So he gave a moment to process.

“Dream, I’m not quite sure you can change. And even if you did, you shouldn’t leave here. You did some fucked up shit. It can’t just be brushed under an ‘oh look at me, big man dream, I’ve changed’, yeah?”

“I know.”

Tommy wondered what expression was being made under that stupid, ominous mask. The long, thin smile and dark black eyes that laid in bone, what all could they possibly hide? How many secrets unspoken? And right now, how many thoughts untold?

The silence was taking too long, and Tommy slowly receded back towards his spot next to the lava, watching it drip down again as a hot purple tear dripped from the ceiling and onto his palm.

_You’re being mean Tommy. Don’t be mean to Dream! He’s not a terrible guy. Hear him out! What if he has changed?_

The blonde set his jaw and shifted, trying to focus on anything other than the voices, shutting his eyes as Dream started moving his books around. He didn’t glance up though, letting his eyes shut. How could anyone do anything in this sort of sweltering heat anyways, Tommy wondered as he slowly slumped down. This wasn’t anything like Technoblades house.

...

Tommy awoke god knows how much longer later. The stones were still prickly, sticky, there was a kink in his neck, Dream was still writing... It did feel a little cooler though. At first, he thought that might be his adjusting to the constant assault the lava gave, but after a few moments, he realized that he had been moved.

At some point in his nap, he’d been carried from his spot next to sizzling lava falls to a spot next to Dreams empty chest, which was somehow immensely cooler than any other spot he’d been so far. It was also much closer to Dream but... this was so much more bearable. Even if significantly further from Sam-Visibility range.

“You’ll get heatstroke being so close to the lava. Don’t wanna fall in while you’re sleeping,” Dream said, still not looking up from where he was scribbling in his notebook. Did that mask have eyeholes? Seriously, how did Dream function with that over his vision? Nonetheless, Tommy grunted out a thanks, rolling his neck a bit.

This wasn’t as terrible as he thought... though to his credit, he’d mostly ignored Dream and slept. Really though, maybe it wouldn’t be quite as bad as he had made it to be. After all, he and Dream had been friends at some point down the line. And he’d been manipulated by Dream before, he knew how to help himself. He just had to hang in a little longer.

“So Tommy, do you remember—“

Or maybe that was just a smidge too opportunistic.


	2. the start of a symphony

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dream looks lonely. Tommy can’t quite wrap his head around the idea, looking at the man in across from him. It’s not like he doesn’t deserve to feel lonely.. but what’s even left for him to miss out there?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> an ode to isolation — a poem of escape
> 
> they aren’t that different are they?

Days and nights had felt both long and short during his exile. He’d always had so many plans for his time, but halfway through he always seemed to lose motivation... or Dream would come and toss all his shit into a pit and blow it all up, and then he’d just have to spend his time working to get it all back again. In exile, Tommy had at least been offered some scenery, some land for exploration... some pictures of Tubbo for his lower moments.

Dream owned a clock.

_He threw it in the lava. He’s an idiot! It’s gone Tommy. There isn’t a clock. Good afternoon. Or maybe it’s morning! We’re still stuck here, really? No clock._

Had owned.

Tommy shifted, shoving a hand back through his hair, desperately attempting to stop the way it plastered to his forehead. Desperately failing. He huffed slightly, though the noise probably wasn’t all that audible over the sizzling falls right outside the cell. Nothing had changed over the night, unfortunately. Or, what he assumed was the night. He’d heard Sam walking, or the echo of the guards footsteps at least, checking once, twice, and over again to ensure his prison was safe. No updates though... not a word uttered to him.

Well, that wasn’t entirely true. Dream uttered a lot of words, though some of them seemed like a more inward dialogue as the hunter scribbled away. And then, even when he wasn’t. Tommy wasn’t really sure what was going on. If Dream had always been this mad, or maybe, if prison had worsened him. He spoke to the air about an escape.. about tools, about durability, all sort off things that his poor overheated brain couldn’t make heads or tails of.

The smaller blonde slowly stretched out as best he could, breathing slowly a few times before getting up. That ceiling was just too close, wasn’t it? A jump had his hands dragging the ceiling... he wondered how on earth Bad had ever fit his 9’6” self inside this thing. A whole lot of crouching, likely. Tommy shook the idea of how cramming that would feel out of his mind.

It wasn’t just to bane the thoughts though. Dream had stood up, and that made adrenaline shoot through his veins, preparing himself for the next move. The next attack, next words, next attempt on anything, Tommy had to be alert, despite how sluggish he felt. His eyes narrowed, following Dream like a hawk as the male walked towards the caldron, hands reaching out. He could hear red stone clicking from up above, a whir of mechanics and then... a bag fell down.

The adrenaline kicked higher, a terrible feeling settling over him. His spit was like tar, forcing his mouth to stay shut as he watched Dream open the bag, bracing for the worst. He hated that he couldn’t see Dreams thoughts, couldn’t look past his mask—god, focus Tommy! The bags coming at you and—

“Breakfast is served Big T.”

_L! L! L! Embarrassing. Oh my god my heart this is bad for me. I really thought that was it, christ almighty. Fuck you Dream. I can’t stop laughing Tommy was so scared—_

“Raw potatoes? My favorite, how’d you know,” Tommy quipped back as soon as his panic calmed a bit. He silently scolded the voices in his head, sliding down against the lectern.

Potatoes.. slightly mushy, raw potatoes. No matter how bad they looked, how soft and wrong, and unappetizing... his stomach grumbled, and he found himself slowly eating the breakfast Dream had provided him with.

In exile, he’d gotten access to more. Anything he could catch, he could cook. Slightly undercooked mutton had been the highlight of most his days, to be quite honest. He hoped that these potatoes did not amount to the same. Not that he could see that happening in his next... what, six days? He could see a new tally on the wall, the squiggly kind. That must refer to him stuck here, right?

“Grab what you’ll eat and slide me back the bag, I’m hungry too,” Dream said after a few more moments passed, and Tommy obliged, taking only three more potatoes. He didn’t want to take too many from Dream... which almost sounded dumb, when he thought about it more. Yeah, feel bad for the guy who got himself put in here Tommy, great idea. He shoved another potato into his mouth, swallowing thickly before hesitantly looking over.

_He probably feels bad. He’s being nice. Don’t feel bad for him. He’s terrible. He’s probably faking it. He looks alone. He looks sad._

“Hey Dream, you sure chat to yourself quite a lot, don’t you big man?”

Tommy cursed the voices for making him think he should initiate any sort of conversation as the most terrible and awkward silence of his life took over. Dream seemed confused by his conversation starter, almost wary... it bothered him deeply. What the fuck? Why did Dream get to act all sad and confused like some sort of little—

“Wh-What?”

As he started to look up, he could already hear the inhuman wheeze coming from Dreams direction. It made his face scrunch up, his eyebrows pulling together in tightly knit confusion, but it only seemed to make the inmate laugh harder.

“Now Dream, I reckon I could—”

His words fell on deaf ears as Dream began to cradle his sides, leaning over his own knees, practically falling against the obsidian. Tommy couldn’t even deny the slightly humored expression that the laugh made him wear. It sounded so nice, so genuine... a real, human noise. And it went on until Tommy wondered if Dream was dying, with how much air his tea kettle lungs were forcing out. Soon enough though, Dream collected himself, clearing his throat as he looked at Tommy.

“You’re really trying to start conversation huh? With that? Tommy, we’re friends, you don’t have to get all stiff.”

_Not friends. Don’t let him get in your head. Oh god that laugh. That looked so hilariously painful oh— He isn’t your friend! Is he okay?_

“Well pardon me, I’m just trying to chat you and you’re being a bit arsehole-y, yeah?”

“Sorry, sorry, do continue Tommy.” Dream held his hands up in a mocked defense, shrugging some as Tommy tried to wipe the bits of potato mush from his fingers.

He wasn’t even sure if he wanted to chat anymore, because clearly it wasn’t going well. Two seconds in and he was already fully prepared to start ignoring Dream again in favor of making his conversations to his own voices but... Dream was looking at him again. His mask was fully facing Tommy, and he had the polite body language of someone who wanted to listen... so Tommy gave him benefit of the doubt.

...

Tommy chatted until he ran out of things to chat about—he caught Dream up on the egg, hotel progress, Snowchester... he voiced the things he couldn’t tell other people, without even really meaning to. He talked about how Wilburs revival made him anxious, about his worries for more people getting infected by the egg, how Big Q had seemed to be acting differently, anything. It was strange to talk like this with Dream, to let everything out, and there were times where the voices in his head started trying to tell him to stop, but he mostly drained them out. It felt so good to get everything off of his chest, so good to talk with someone who willingly listened to him. Dream gave good feedback too! Good advice, good information... it was pleasant. When he finished, Dream didn’t even press anything more.

He allowed his voices back in for a bit, listening to their worries before waving it off. Dream wouldn’t get out of here at the end of the week like he would, Dream would sit in here until he rotted. What would he do with the information about Tommy? Share it with whatever wall voices he’d been chatting with earlier? Great, great.

“You know this is nice.”

Tommy lifted his head to Dream, tilting his head to the side just a tad inquisitively.

“Well, you know how it is Tommy. No one visits me, not that often anyways. Just me.. the walls... sometimes the lava, yknow, it looks like faces, and I can chat with them but.. other than that, it’s just lonely.”

Tommy did know how it was. He real didn't like that sympathy he felt for Dream, but how couldn’t he? Being isolated hurt. Away from anything familiar, anyone familiar... Tommy couldn’t imagine what it must feel like to lose your friends before you were alone. Knowing they wouldn’t visit even with the option, simply because they didn’t care, not even a sliver. His eyes scanned over Dream slowly before he nodded a little, the potatoes in his stomach churning some. He felt bad... but Dream deserved to be here. Right? Right.

His eyes fell a bit dim as he sat there quietly, his eyes slowly trailing down to his shoes, his hands awkwardly lacing together before he scooted further into the cold (well, cool-ish) corner. They’d been having such a good morning too, hadn’t they? Even if it was Dream, it was still the first morning he’d woken up to a chat, no Sam Nook chores, no Jack Manifold, no nothing.

_He hurt us! We can’t pity him, he doesn’t deserve it. Forever is a long time. I feel bad for Dream, myself. We can’t let him play us like this._

He quietly nodded agreeing with his voices. Don’t let him in your head. That’s when it’s hard to get back. Tommy heard Dream sliding back down, surrounded by his throne of books. Slowly, the scratching of pen on paper filled the air where the lava didn’t, and blue eyes were back to counting scratches on the walls.

There were only two months or so worth but.. it felt like an eternity since Dream had the ability to roam the server. Tommy was certain it had felt like an eternity to the prisoner too. Ages since his final battle, since he and Tubbo had sat on their bench together, listening to sweet melodies from a jukebox, chatted with the real Wilbur, not his ghostly-go-lucky counterpart. Even further back was the beginning of this whole disc war. The beginning of any wars, really. Part of Tommy wished they could go back. Most of Tommy knew better. His hand traced against the obsidian underneath him slowly, his head tilting over against to chest.

...

Tommy didn’t remember falling asleep. He didn’t remember what number he had gotten to. Maybe his sixth, seventh round counting the tally’s in the wall. He doesn’t really care what he’s left off on though—he does care about the leather bound pages and quill at his feet. Sitting there, crisp and cool, like it wasn’t a bajillion fucking degrees in this black box. His eyes moved from the book to Dream, who didn’t seem to be awake. Still, silent, shoulders rising and falling steadily.

Ever so slowly, ever so hesitantly, he picked up the book, skimming through each page. Not a single dot of ink. He let out a small sigh, pulling it into his lap slowly. Even after Dream had said he wasn’t giving Tommy another book after those he tossed into the lava... he still gave it. _Generous_. He wasn’t sure why he caught that, a single voice amongst hundreds of thousands others in his brain. But he heard it. And it stuck. Because this was a generous gift, a sign that Dream clearly thought enough of Tommy to give him another chance when he said he wouldn’t.

Another chance.

Tommy ran his thumb along the spine, wondering vaguely about what he would even put in it. His experience in the prison maybe? Or maybe he should write a letter to Tubbo... it had been too long since they’d spoken. He wondered if Tubbo knew what happened—if he missed Tommy. He quietly opened the book again, smoothing out the first page before carefully stabilizing the hard cover against his knees.

‘Dear Tubbo’, Tommy wrote before scribbling a line through it. ‘Day One.’ Nope. ‘Pandora’ He didn’t even finish that thought, twirling the quill in frustration. How did Dream write for hours on end? What did Dream write, that managed to keep him so focused, so intent? He ran a hand back through his hair again as it started to slick against his forehead again, taking a slow, steadying breath. Okay, focus. Who else has written before? What can you take from them?

He knew he couldn’t just walk over to Dream and take a glance in one of his books—he could lose his final life over something dumb and brash like that. Besides, he wasn’t ready to get that close. Okay, who else.. Ranboo. Ranboo wrote his memories all the time, in that slightly crumpled book. He’d seen the all capital, ‘DO NOT READ’ when Dream had thrown it at Tubbo, caught just the slightest of glimpses inside the book too. Of course, he denied its contents. He’d deny any connection to Ranboo during that time as hard as he could, for both their safeties.

Tommy slowly lifted the quill before stopping again. He didn’t really want to write his thoughts though. The voices would probably get too bad, too loud again. They always seemed to be louder when he got bored, and he knew for a fact that something like that would bore the shit out of him. The blonde groaned, his head hitting the lectern a bit (which in turn, only made him groan again). Why was writing so difficult? He wracked his brain for a moment, his thoughts vaguely turning to Karl. He’d owned a library right? So he must—

It all clicked for him in an instant, and he straightened up so fast, he nearly whacked his head against the lectern again. A song. He could write a song! That’s what Wilbur did, when they were fighting for L’manburg, right? Tommy could do that too! A song about exile maybe, or his time here in the prison... the end of the disc wars! He would do just like Wilbur. It would be good! A good song, maybe a poem, something people could use to remember when they’d finally locked up the server’s biggest threat!

A song.

It made Tommy feel giddy. As he began to scribble away about what should be in it, what names belonged in it, events, disc names, he didn’t even notice Dream rising from his slumber. Too absorbed to glance up when Dream shifted his mask, mumbling something about how ungodly hot it was in the cell. Mumbling something or other about Ranboo, about hotel plans. All he could do was scribble his song outline, chatting softly, eagerly, with the voices in his head. They were just as excited to contribute as he was to write... this was going to be the best song ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi! oh my goodness i cannot believe the reception on the first chapter! thank you for eighty-one kudos (eighty-one can you believe that??)! i plan on sticking with consistent updates until this little thing is done! after all, it’s just based round my idea of what happens while tommy’s all stuck, yeah? 
> 
> anyways thank you all again! don’t forget to eat, hydrate, and take care of yourself while reading!


	3. with the softest blue wool

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The voices are loud. So loud he can’t even think of anything else. But then there’s a cool cloth on his forehead.. a water bottle pressing against his cheek. At least Dream was there.

Today would be the day he found where Wilbur snuck off too every day until lunch. He was determined. Even before Wilbur started his own solo trips, Tommy had found that Wilbur often snuck off to an unexplained haven. His ‘crystal oasis’, as latter would put it. Tommy really never understood why anyone would want to spend time alone, no matter how crystal the alone place was. Of course, now with the voices, he never truly felt alone anymore. It felt amazing. Like constantly having friends in your head. It was especially beneficial for him, with how often he found himself alone in the house.

Enough of that though. Get too caught up and he might trip, he reminded himself, pushing away some of the leaves that threatened his head, stepping over the roots that jeopardized his injury-less walk. He grinned a little. It had been ages since he’d gotten hurt. Without an adult around, it had forced him to take up more responsibility in those regards. And, not to toot his own horn, but he was pretty damn good.

_Tommy pay attention. Tommy look ahead. Tommy! Pit Tommy, there’s a drop!_

He almost started to mock the voices for trying to troll him, before very promptly dropping down a pit. A pit that had most certainly not been in the forest before now. His hands scrambled for the small rectangle in his pocket, rapidly flipping it open in search of something to soften his land, before he plummeted into water. Just as fast as he pulled it out, he shoved his inventory back into his pocket, pushing up, pulling himself over the edge and coughing up water. Jesus christ almighty, that was a bit terrifying, huh?

He coughed and hacked for a while as the voices spoke; some laughing, some scolding. But soon enough, Tommy pulled himself together and looked up. Whatever had caused the pit has sealed off, only leaving a long, dark chute above him. He ran a hand through his hair, shaking his head a few times before falling silent. He could hear humming. As he took in his surroundings a bit longer, he could see light, down a hall. Chests lined the walls, they led down and out to what looked... a bit like a terrarium.

He walked down to the end of the chests, peeking into the cavern before holding in a gasp. The entire thing was artificial. Glowstone and shroomlights illuminated the room, not a square inch of it left to the dark. The ground was covered in flowers, flowers that bloomed and curled towards the ceiling. The ceiling was a feat of its own, blue glass covering the entire thing, dropping an artificial sky over it... and the main attraction lay front and center. Not the clearly cared or beehives, not the small pond, nor the fish inside, no..

Tommy meant the tree.

The huge, beautiful oak tree that curled up towards the ceiling. The tree that had lanterns hanging from its branches, that filled the room with a warm, homey smell, the tree that practically reached for him, beckoned him closer. It was so unlike anything he had ever seen... and, at the base of the tree, sat Wilbur. Soft wool surrounded him. It was pretty, the lightest of blues, matching the false sky above them. There was a partially open barrel, the smell of all types of baked goods wafting through the air.. a few books on a shelf, though the shelf seemed a tad overgrown with vines.

Wilbur though.. he sat in the middle of it all. Peaceful, happy, the slightest of smiles on his lips. You would’ve never guessed ‘bout the voices in his head, or the two gods who had raised him. You wouldn’t question a single thing about him, other than what he might be writing. Tommy looked down at the mossy stones that slowly turned into dirt, fresh dirt, before slowly stepping forward. He didn’t feel guilty (though his voices certainly told him too), he just walked over. Managed to get within maybe a few yards of Wilbur before his brother noticed him.

“Theseus.”

“Icarus.”

The two stared at each other before Wilbur tossed down a small padding of blue wool for him to sit on (he did), and handed him a book (he took it). The names weren’t really theirs, clearly. Phil told them they weren’t, that the blood god was just confused sometimes. Techno insisted on telling them their respective stories though, foreboding. Never let them forget. Tommy didn’t understand why. Wilbur had once speculated with him that it might be a ‘repeating history’ thing. He didn’t really care.

He did, however, slowly sink back with the thin history book. Fingers gently sliding open old pages before he began to read quietly. He could see why Wilbur wanted to come here. It really felt like a paradise. A bright, beautiful escape. He wondered how Wilbur found it. Certainly, fifteen year old Wilbur hadn’t built this, right? Tommy shrugged it off, slowly laying back. He glanced over at the spot next to the barrel, catching eye of a clock. Half an hour to noon. He nodded ever so lightly, before resuming his reading.

He must’ve gotten through at least three books before Wilbur finally spoke again. Though... it didn’t quite seem directed at him, he listened in a little anyways. The way Wilbur spoke to his voices was polite.. nice, soft. He seemed like he shared real conversations though. It wasn’t like Tommy... Tommy was certain that his voices were more the advice-giving kind, not the chatting kind. He leaned over a little, peeking at the still open book in Wilburs lap.

It was a bit.. obscure. It seemed to have poems, a song maybe... but it wasn’t the type of casual tune, shanty, love song... it seemed more like an ode of Wilburs adventures. Which only confused him more. He knew that Wilbur had always been the one with words, the one who knew what to say, how to properly convey himself, but he never thought about songs.

Wilbur glanced at him after a moment before clearing his throat. Seems the voices had told him about Tommy’s snooping. The blonde slowly rocked back, sitting down and setting the book he’d been given on top of the shelf.

“I didn’t know you sang?”

“Well, it’s been a year Tommy. I learned guitar while I was exploring.”

The younger nodded a tiny bit, tilting his head. “Seems hard. The songwriting, I mean.” He’d done piano way back when Phil was more.. well, active with him. He knew the base level about instruments but.. writing songs seemed like a while different notion. Wilburs hand ruffling his hair made him lose track of those thoughts though, and he felt himself relax at the others reassuring, brotherly affection. Even if Wil left in the next week like he said he’d planned, Tommy could manage. As said brother opened his mouth, Tommy expected advice, or maybe a signal that it was time for them to head back, but instead, he got the words of a bard... maybe that should’ve been more expected anyways.

“Tommy, writing a song is nothing more than a poem to a tune.”

...

Tommy could feel the book in his palms being moved, but he couldn’t bother to rouse himself enough to try and fight it. His eyes opened blearily and he made out a figure. Not... not Wilbur though. Dream. His brain struggled for a moment before he remembered where he was. Not in oasis, for certain. Quite the opposite. He tried to push Dream back, but then there was the cool feeling of a washcloth on his forehead, and he couldn’t help but melt against the ground.

Dream was definitely talking to him.. he didn’t really catch it though. Something about Tommy with a fever. It could’ve been heatstroke, to be fair, or it could be the shitty potatoes. Probably a mix of both. He shifted a little as the washcloth already began to grow warm against his forehead, grunting softly as Dream took it back.

Why was he taking care of Tommy anyways? There weren’t friends, certainly. After all, Tommy had gotten Dream stuck in here. It really didn’t make all that much sense. He wasn’t complaining though. He’d much rather have help than he would die of heatstroke in the prison.

“...ink Tommy. Tommy, you have to drink som...eriously, it’s not funny.”

He stared at the blurry bottle that was being thrust into his hands, hesitantly taking it and attempting to get some water down. It wasn’t very cold, but that didn’t matter. It tasted so good in his parched throat, cooling the angry dry heat that had settled during his (second) fainting session.

“Dream?” His voice sounded distant in his own ears. And maybe a tad bit slurred. But even with his blurred vision, he didn’t miss how the other turned to attention. “Yknow.. you’re not all bad. No matter what they say... maybe you aren’t totally shit,” He acknowledged, though Dreams complete lack of posture change forced Tommy to realize he might have only gotten half those words out. Well... whatever. He knew what he meant.

Another washcloth had him relaxing his head back again, and he sighed softly, starfish stretching out as his vision slowly faded out again. He wondered if Phil knew what happened.. if he was thinking about him at all. Better than that, if Wilbur was watching him from whatever great beyond he was in. That would be nice.

...

The next time Tommy woke up, there was a book steadily fanning his face. His eyes slowly forced open, feeling a bit too dry and a bit too crusty. He wouldn’t blame Dream though.. the cooler book-fan air was heavenly against his face. As was the way Dream sat in between he and the lava. He slowly licked his lips, before accepting another water bottle from the other with a small thanks.

It was nice, a stark change from the disorienting heat all around them. He slowly pushed up, leaning against the wall quietly and trying to take in a deep breath. It was hard to even get his breathing that slow though, and his head hurt... though, that could’ve been the voices. They were exhaustingly loud, screaming over each other so loudly that he couldn’t even hear a single one of them. He rubbed his head, trying to focus on Dream again. He was talking... hm.

Tommy glanced down at the potato being pressed into his hands, slowly pushing it against his lips and trying to eat it. It didn’t taste as good as the water had, but he still ate. Slowly slowly, he tried his best. The room was swimming slightly, but it wasn’t like he needed to get up anyways. As soon as he finished eating his potato, he starting to keel a bit. But Dream was there. Dream helped hold him up, still talking to the brick wall that was Tommy’s brain. He quietly leaned closer, his eyes shutting again as his stomach tumbled slowly.

...

Tommy sat quietly under the tree. It had been ages since he came this far away from the lands of the SMP, and somehow, the secret room hadn’t much changed at all. The books still laid in the bookshelf, though he could no longer reach through the dense vines to pull out any. The blue wool felt just as soft, the clock still sat, slowly sinking with the sun. Wilbur hadn’t come to visit then. And Ghostbur clearly hadn’t rediscovered it. He pushed open the barrel, looking in. None of Nikis sweets remained, though he did spy a book.

Book. A book with a swirl and flourish of Wilburs signature. He slowly pulled it out, his hands shaking ever so slightly.. but it didn’t matter. Tommy traced the cover slowly before glancing at the pillowy wool under the tree, moving over and then slowly laying back in it and gently opening it.

It was filled with flourishes, doodles, stray notes.. it really looked Wilburs. Not president Wilbur, not Pogtopia Wilbur, not the off the deep end brother he couldn’t get back. This was the Wilbur who cared about him, the one who teased him about the slip-up ‘Wilby’. He smiled a tiny bit, humming some of the tunes softly. He sat there for hours, reading through the journal. Finding some shears and clipping the overgrowth of vines to read Wilburs old book selection. He missed it here. He missed this place... his hand slid along the spine of an old book of myths they’d gotten from Techno before pulling it off the shelf and opening it.

...

Tommy shifted a bit, rubbing his eyes blearily, the cold sweat over his skin making him shake, despite how hot it stayed in the room. He shakily glanced around before noting the mask that was sitting next to his face. The leg that was right next to his face. He felt a washcloth wipe away the sweat on his face and he smiled, ever so slightly. He quietly shifted a little closer. He could feel Dream tensing up slightly, but he didn’t look up. For starters, he was tired. And secondly, he didn’t really care enough about what lied under the mask to check.

The room was hot. Sticky. Everything about this cell sucked. But Dream.. his old friend. He was being so nice. And sympathetic, and understanding. He quietly pulled his hands closer to his chest, curling up slightly. This wasn’t even an ounce as bad as he thought it was going to be. It wasn’t like exile. It wasn’t any manipulation. It was just... friends. Vaguely, Tommy wondered if Dream had changed. That’s what prisons were right? To help make people good again?

He slowly reached towards the books, before stopping as Dream pushed a book into his hand. Pushed Tommy’s book back into his hands. He smiled a tiny bit, flipping through the pages before writing again. This was actually—

_Don’t trust him. He hurt us. Oh my god this room is disorienting. He could be faking it. This is bad. Be safe Tommy. Hunger is low!_

He paused, gripping his head slightly before he started to write again. His hand writing wasn’t very clear, certainly not even half as neat as Wilburs had been, but he wrote. With a gentle, simple flourish, he started to write Wilburs story. After all, who else was going to do it? Maybe he’d give it to Techno later. Then, maybe the next kid he met, some day in the future, he would have two history books.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don’t think this is quite as long as the last one but i still hope you liked it! some big flashback stuff :) i’m trying to make a bit of history to go off of—would you guys like it if i did add another book to the series that was just back story?
> 
> don’t forget to eat, hydrate, and take care!!


	4. do not burn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The voices sound like static. Like a radio in a tunnel. Loud, words popping out on occasion but nothing really discernible. Dream is good though. He helps it stop.
> 
> Or maybe he’s what causes it.

Day four was different than days one through three. Nothing about the room had changed, Sam hadn’t tried talking to Tommy, and they certainly hadn’t gotten anything better than their potatoes. But Dream and he were talking. His book was slowly coming along (it was significantly easier to write about his older brother than it had been trying to copy him), and he was sort of eager about it. He shifted and then sighed softly, putting the quill in between the pages and shutting it gently before he glanced over at Dream.

The hunter had been writing too, though unlike Tommy, he didn’t divulge contents. That was alright, he had decided, as long as they got along. Even if they were on not-murderering-each-other terms, he didn’t really feel like taking his chances at pissing the other off. So he filled uncomfortably long silences with his words.

Dream was a much better listener than Technoblade had been, offering input on Tommy’s situations, telling him his thoughts, what he knew about the people Tommy was around so that the blonde could use it to his advantage. It made him feel... good. He was getting information from someone who actually cared, who could show he was actually listening. It made him eager.

His fever was gone too, and he felt significantly better (even if Dream said he didn’t fully look it, and that he should probably relax). He could move around, focus, breathe. It was liberating. He stayed better hydrated, and even further from the lava. He was almost always next to Dream, contently hiding behind him as a heat-shield, scribbling away. Dream didn’t seem like he thought much of it, though the mask didn’t come off again the next day. Tommy didn’t mind that either. After all, there had been enough trust for him to take it off once, right? He hadn’t even looked! There was a (small) mutual trust. That was good enough for now.

He shifted up, moving to get water again before glancing at the rolling red tar outside the cell. Dream had been right about it making faces. Sometimes, he swore he could see Technoblade, moving forward, reaching out to him, offering Theseus a home. Or Wilbur, asking if he was okay. Surprising both himself and illusion-bur, he had said yes. Even if this place sucked... he was okay right now. Funny.

D̸͈̰̩͙͚̦̱̗͙̞̪̹̎̎͒͊̊̅̀̇̊̊̀͘͜͝ǫ̸̫̣̊̈ǹ̵̫̦͔̪̘̀͝’̷̤̱̣̖̜͜͝t̴̯̬̠̄̈́̂͒͐̎̀̀̂̐͋̒̇̒͝ ̴̨͚̱̰̳̟̮͓͓̼̦͒̂̽͆̈́͝ţ̸͍͎̮̗̬͍͔̞̳͙̳̟̫̇͒̇̓̌͆͆͛̆̈́̚r̸̯̻̥̭̮̣̘̈́̉̇̑̒͛̈̎͋͌͋̇͠͝͝u̸̧̻͍͓͎̹͚̟̩͋̊̓͆͌͠͝ş̵̨̨͉̘̩̙̙̼́͌̃̐̉̾̈͒̋̀̍̚̚t̸̬͔̥͉͍̫͖̹̞͚͇̥̗̣́͂͗͘ͅ ̷̢̨̟̩͓̝̤͈͎͇̝̹̟̪̀̇͋̉͒͆̌̔̑̿͝D̵͎͇̭͕͚̩͊̊̋͗̚͠͝ͅŗ̸̢̡͖͙̤͉̄ȩ̶̻͎̣̭̤͍̖̭͈͇͇͒̀͌̅͆̓̎͌̾͜ͅa̸̡͉̙͍̼̦̗̥̪̖͈̼͈͋̉͊̓m̶̩̰̳̯͆͋̽͑̓̽̄͘͝!̷̹̇̌̇͆͝͠ ̷͓̱̘̩̤̋͊̑͝H̸̪͕̭̠̱͐̌̈́̐̈́̿̆̍ę̷̳̯̟̖͙̬̥̬͚̦̼̜̟̋̐̍ͅ ̸̖́͆̎m̶̡̛̋͠i̶͈̺̙͔̖̭̺̰̠̋̌̇͐̑̅̇̒̈́̾̕͠ĝ̶̙͖͔̬̥̘͖͚̮͎̽͒̆́̎̏̈́̊̒̋̊̿̉h̴̡̡̺̙̯̭̰̮͍͇͎͖̜̀̊̚ͅt̷̡͈͙̤͆̅̋̈́͐̉̽̎͘ ̵̡̞̘̦̭͉̩̩͇͎̳͔̗̙̖̈́̚b̴͍͔̥͎̆̓̍͌͒̏̏̄̔͛̕é̶̞͍̘̱͕̗̲̣͉̭͎̖̬͎̎̃̈̌̌̓̾̈́͊͠͝ͅ ̵̝͉̼̳̙̜̳̭̘͈̌̓͂̇̈̂̋̐́̈́͝͝ͅͅư̶̠̙̞̥͎̘͐̀̑́̎́́͑̌̄̒̾͠͠ͅs̵͙̯̩̲̃͝ͅị̴̡̻͇̳̺̗̩̿͊̏͒̕ͅn̸̨̠̪͉͇̰̫̤͉̜̣̉̊́̀̔͒́̄̀̽͑̓̏̋̚g̷̛̪̘̲̻̻̰̗̝͓̹̬͇͉͆͆͗̋̍̑̓̈́͌̓͒̚ͅ ̶̧̛̗͙̩̥̳̱̲̠͚̤͖͊͛̇̽̇̋͌̒̀̋͝ͅͅú̴̢͉̮̞̘̳͙̝̰̎͌̌͂̅̃͘͜͠s̶̡͔̦̳̳͔̭̱̬̻͗̒̒̑́̐̄̔̕͝ͅ ̶̧͙͚͓̼̏́̽̕ṡ̵̞̗͎̞̞̘͙̘̼̟͎͑̂͐̾́̂͑ͅt̵̹͇̪̲̰̀̌̃̀̆̑̿̈́̐̐̒̐̚ï̶̻̱̙͖̥͇̭͓̤̳͙̎̈́̄́̓̀͑̍̽̿̇̆̐̚ͅl̸̗̮͎̠̻͉̜̱͓̖̙̓̆̄̅̀̉̌͋͐͗̋͂͛̿l̸̳͙̖̗̤̈́̇̓͑͒̿́̈́͂̅̔̃̔̉͘ͅ.̷̧͓͎̥̫͍̓͜ ̶̺̤̮͍̲̐̇̿̊̒͑̉͝͠T̸̛̼̟͙̠͕͕͓͆͋̾̊̌͒̿̍̌̀͑͗͠͝o̴̧̱͈͍̙̝̞̻̰͓͚̩̒̑͋̒̃m̴̧̩͉̣̻̞̠̹̿͌͆̋̋͒͑̀̀̕͠m̷̢̙̺̗̼̯̬̤͈͎͇̀͐̓̈́̃͒̔̏́̐̑̿͌͑͠y̴̡̺̫͉͚̱̥̮̩̺̘͈̣̔̏,̵̡̝̜͚̙͍̳̺̻̠̦̼͓̄̂͛̒͂͋̈̌̒͝ ̵̛̫̯̪͕̳͒̅̀̽̏̈̾̃̆͑̕̕y̴̧̘͈̹̹̝̳͔̜̬̦̰̗̋̍̑͆͑͋͜͝ͅơ̴̧̡͕͔̫͓̲̈́̑̔̈͝ͅů̸͈̈̀̎̌̒̆́̄͑̊̓͆̚ ̷̡̛̠̻̻͉̮̩̇̈́̀̀͊̎̿̊͘̚͝h̸̨̛̹̬̙̝͔̻̗̹͎̹̎́̄͗̃́̂̒͋̊̂̚̚͠ͅa̷͇̰̬̖͕̋͂̏̄̈́̿v̴̨̜̜̣͒̎̕e̷̝̻̼͍̱̺̮̯̲̩̦̽́̎̉ ̷̮͒͋̂̐̉͌̂̏̐͂̇͘͝t̵̢̖͙͚͔̮̪̟̞̮͕͋͌̄͒͊͒̃̉̎̒̂͠͝͠͝ơ̸͍̤̪̭̳͓̫̯̝̮̓̽̈͌͗̈́̐̐͠ ̵̨̧̩͇͎̹͉͙͔̮̤̥͇͉̓͛̄̔̽g̴̼̹͕̰͈̭̪̜̍̂̕͜͝͠e̷̟͚̳͇̪̿͑̃̇̍͒̐̉̅͌̊̊͘͘͜͜͝t̶̛̝̞͖̱̔͂̔͌͑͆̽͌ ̶͈̰̬́̓͗́̚̕͝ò̴̢̡͈̙̩̹͖̼̰͖̻̮͍̉́̈́͜͝ụ̶̩̟̬͚̤̩̻̭͈̼̞̜͑̓̀͌̌̓͗̀̀̐̎̚͝͠t̷̮̄͂̓͋̎̂̄͘͝.̷͈̰̑̏̔͒̃̈̀̚ ̴̢̟̫͔̲̼̆̔́̒̋T̶̨̙͕͚̣̼̟͕̙͌̈́̊̀̓̔́̚h̵̛̟̺̤͚͖̫̪̩̓̔̊̋̒͆̽̾̈̽̀͝i̴̧̝̼̳̓̂͑̀͌̾̈̉́̈́̕͝͝s̷̺̝̹̣̫̹̻̰͈͌̃̀̎̍͗̈́̌̍͘ ̷̡̨̭̘̭͓̩̓̀͂̽ḭ̵̧͓̺̝̞͖̻̩̠͕̪̼͈̺̈́̆̉͆̆̕̕͘͝ş̶̛̭̳̱͙́̃̄̓͑̋̇̀͋̋̇̎͝͠n̷͈̦̩̽͗̒͐͒̕͝͠’̶̨̯͖̜̘̖͚̹̤̞̬̬̪͑̈́͋̈́͛͋͆̕ͅt̶̨̛̛̺̻̱͓͖̯͕͚̯͕̟̙̉̈́̈́̐̊̓́̊͘͘͝͠ ̸͈͈̍͆̈́̐͑̕͠͝g̴̨̭̫̹̮͓͔̱̰͎̋̽̇̈́́̚ǫ̴̡̹̬͉̩̩̝͓͔̳͔͖̭͎̇̀̿̈́̿o̴̢͉̪͈̼̲̽d̷̡̗̖͖̙̻͖̙͖͖͊͂̿̏̊̊͋̓̅̅͛͌͘͝ ̶̢̲̱͝f̸̡̈́̅̀̿̈́̓̾͑̏ǫ̶̢̨͓̦̠̜̞̻̝͍͐̅̽͂ͅr̵̥͍͆̒̂̀ͅ ̴̠̙̱̣̙̬̦̜̓̀̂̏̔ú̷̖̙̣̠̲͌̐̃͌͒s̸̡̡̧͍̳͎͕̪͉̖͈̙̟̥̉́̅̒̇̒̽͘͜.̵̠̍̓̇̔̑́̚̚͝͠͝

There was that though. That was... equally new and disturbing. His voices were distorted, more monstrous than usual. They were hard to understand, practically impossible to determine, and all yelling over each other... all the time. Tommy had been doing his best to ignore them, but sometimes all he could do was lay there listening to static. It had happened back during exile too. The longer he was there, the louder they got. The more horribly, terribly distorted.

He remembered catching his reflection, feeling numb to the dimness in his eyes. The voices had gotten particularly static-y then, as Dream walked up behind him, a hand on his shoulder as he greeted Tommy. The greeting of a friend. And even back then, when he was upset, when he couldn’t help all the unbridled rage he felt for the other... he had let Dream in. Broken down, cried in his chest, talked about how badly he wanted Tubbo back. The other hadn’t spoken, just gently rubbed his head as he rambled. Dream was good at helping him ignore the voices when it got like that. Good at distracting him from the raging static in his head. Tommy couldn’t be more grateful for it too.

“Tommy.”

The blonde whipped around and Dream patted the ground softly. “Don't stand with your knees locked for so long, you’ll pass out.”

He scoffed as he walked over, eyes rolling (some might say it was hard enough for them to get stuck there), though he sat down nonetheless. “You’re not my father, huh? Who are you to tell me what to do?”

“Oh come on.” Dream shook his head, and Tommy was certain he rolled his eyes just as hard under that mask. It put a smile on his lips anyways though, grinning like an idiot as he laid back against the wall. He hadn’t gotten to hang like this with any of his un-jailed friends since... just after Dream had been put here. After all, Tubbo had left right away to start putting Snowchester together, and then he’d started hanging about with Ranboo more too, Quackity hadn’t been around in ages.. sometimes he felt like everyone was too busy.

He took a deep breath before leaning back. Well. At least they were here. Him and Dream. He could feel a headache of static coming on, but only managed to slump down and curl up, hoping to fall asleep before it got too loud. Then there was a gentle hand in his hair again, soothing him to sleep, slowly silencing the voices... yeah. Dream wasn’t so evil in all.

...

He and Dream spent most of the day sleeping. Unlike before, when it had come in turns of glaring, sleepless distrust, they generally slept at the same times. It was good.. it let them catch up on lost hours. Besides, sleeping was one of the only good options when you were bored. At least it wasn’t counting ticks on the wall, Tommy mused to himself as the light scratching of his quill filled the relatively silent room. The pops of bubbling lava were almost automatically ignored now, like a fan or an ac. It was easy to pretend it wasn’t there, though sometimes he got so caught up writing he forgot to drink... Dream usually reminded him.

Speaking of, Tommy glanced at the sleeping figure a few feet down from him. Understandably, they needed space every so often. He guessed, it was only sensible, even when you did hate being alone, it’s hard to stay within five feet of someone all the time. He and Tubbo didn’t even stick that close these days, and Tubbo was his best mate.

He glanced up as red stone clicked, holding his hand out under the chute and catching the potatoes. He slowly counted off his own, only taking a third before pushing to his feet and dropping the other potatoes into one of the chests, humming lightly as he did, before a soft splash made him pause. Tommy gently shut the chest, turning around and moving back over, staring blankly at the second item they’d been given.

A clock.

He turned it over in his hands, watching the water droplets on it turn to steam before tracing the engraving around the edge. ‘DO NOT BURN’. Hm. He wondered if Dreams last clock had said that too. Had the hunter.. burned the last clock? Tommy glanced back at dream, watching his shoulders rise and fall steadily before he pulled the small screen in his pocket out, setting the clock in the first slot. It was about to turn nighttime.

K̷̢͉̬̞̫̝̱̫̖̘͗́̒̓̚ę̵̧̛̻̮̗͇̣̖̠̰̟̪̩̳̉͐̉̍́̿̓̃̅̈́͌͐̒͝ë̴̡̥̖́̽̃̊͆p̴̢͚͈̫̭̝̘̘͚̮̳̭͓̟͋̓̍̋̒̋̓̍́̐̅͠͝͝ ̶̛̮̬͈͈̫̻̩̼̗̐̌̿̃̂̒̐̌̇̀̆t̸̛̟͔̤̟̖̗͍̼̯̰͇̜̲̓͛̀ḩ̴̩̼͋̅͜͝ͅẹ̴̪̖̮̍ ̶̨̟̳̼͇̟̱̥̗̲̥̌̌̈́͊ć̵̤͎̼̻͕̮̖̀̑̀͑̒͐̔̈́̆̔̽͜l̷̢͙̟̻͇̦̭̘̿̑͋ǫ̶̧̡̡̪̮̹̫̯͖͓͉̗̖̣̃͐̿́́̄̀c̷͙̩̦̰̭͇̣̣̈́̄̔̆͐̈́̀̇̈́͝͝k̵̨̛͕̰̪̝̱̳̖̬̃̄̀͂̔͋͂ͅͅ.̴̢͕̥̺̜̣̖̪̲͉̙̲̓̊̾̈́́͗̋́̀͊̽̈̚͝ ̸̝͈̫̠̬̗̝̥͈͉̘̼̓̽̑͑̉͆̒̐͋̓̽̚D̶̹̘̳̠̫̼̃͐̈́̌̉̀ǫ̶̢̡̡̖̜̮̼̹̲͈͔̯͙̂͂̆n̴̢̤̘̦͓̳͕̤̝̬̙͍̆̑͗̑̿͜͜͝’̶̧̨̦̮͚̯͙̙̬̦̼͙̲͓͆̒̇̈́͑̅͠t̵̬̳͖̝̞̫̥̬̼̣͍̯̣̬͂̉͛̉ ̶̢̡͔̮͚̻̠̞̮̭̭̑̏͜ḽ̸͓̰̹̪̜̺̫̺͈̠̞͚͍̻͒̌͌͛̑̎͋̄͑̾͊̽̎̉͠ë̸̢̛͕̺̫̻̭͓̦̯̣́̌͛͋̒̈́̀͌̂̕͜ṯ̶̢̛̛͍̘͙̙͍̮̖̺̐̑́̐̉͊͋̄̃͘͜ ̶͍̱̹̘͍̻͕̽̆̀́̈́̏͛̃̍̉̔̚͠h̵̤̤͚̅̏̃͒̐̄͗̅͗̐́͠i̶̛͎͍͎̗̹̾̋̎̓̃̑́̀̅̈́̾͊͘m̷̧̡̻͓̩̣̱̻̘͚͇̯̙̓͂̊́̐̑̐̆͐́̎͝ ̵̨̩̱͍͕͇̫͎̰͊͠t̴̨̛͙̦̭̼̤̬̩͔̟̫͊̇̊̈́̌́̍́̓͛̅ä̵͇̯́̂́̅k̸̟͚̼̠̱̖̮̺̹̻͑̿̓̾͛̕͘͜͝͠ͅẻ̵̗̣̜̤̥̼̜̍̊͑̆̄̿̐̔̾͒ ̶̧̨̨̧̛̭͖̮̥̙͔͙̹͕̇̽͗̐͛̏͜͝i̷͚̊̊́̑͝ț̷̢̢̛͖͖͇͚̫͊̍̐̆͒͆̋͗͝͝.̸̡͕̪̰̬̣̹͚̠͎͊͛͌͒͛̅͋̋̊̓̓̚ ̷̧̘̺̞̖̪͓̦̺̝̞̱̜͆Ẃ̷̧̨̢̼͈̙͈͍̬̮͔̆̈é̴̡̛͖̱̟͓͙̼̯̲͔͓̱̻͈͖̓͊̋̽̉̋͝ ̷̡̛̹̳̰̙̞̻̪͙̣̻̰͗̽͐̿̓̓̽̊̀̿̈̂͌͜ͅͅc̷̨̡̦̩͇͕̬̦̼͙̋͂̕a̶̞̩̰͖̮̹̥̎̓̒̑́n̷̮̲̙͛͜’̷̬̩̹͚͚̥͉̱͐̏̓̈́̒̅̌̆̇͑͊͠t̶͍͓͇̼̗̝̎̾̓̀̆̓̾̃̾̌̔͆͂̚͠ ̵̖̞̣̣̤̼͖͕̙̲̠̤̗̄̈̈́̀͗͗͋͂͗́͝͝l̷̤̖̙̮̩̺̞̱̣̖̮͚̐̈́̈́̾̍̾̈́̓̕̚ḭ̸̮̝̈́̂́̈́̀̓͌̋͊̀̚̚e̸̢̢̬̜̦̘̘͎̰̗̗̱̩̹͂̀͋̔́̇̏̇̽̂̿͛͘ ̷̧̛̝̖̮͚͚͖́̓͊͛̑̿̅͂̋͘ţ̶̼͈̱̭̼̥̠̹̊͂͌̚õ̷̼͔̜͉̗̠̤̣͙͖͚ͅ ̵̬̦̦̝̼̜̞̲̻̝͈̘͚̱͊̇̒͗̅̾̍̋̈́̒ḩ̸̙͙̯̙͊͆̀̄̚ͅi̵̩͚̤̳̖̱̦̫̦̪͈͍͋͒͑̎̈͒̚ͅṃ̷̧̨̩̳͇͇̺̤̦̝̹̾͜͜ ̸͙̳͕̈́r̴̻̓̎̉̐̈́̈́̍̏̚i̵͓̻̩͛̎̇̚̚͠g̴̫̖͒́̀̏̈h̶̻͓͍̯̲̩̭͈͚̩̩͙͕̰̎̓̄̆̑̆̃̑̈́̕͜t̴̨͉̦͚͉̮̥̪̖̱̐̑̉̈́̒̀͗͗́̾̕ ̴̡̨̤̹͙̻̟̭̩̥͎̥̣̙̏ņ̷͔̮̲̮̙̰̘̦̣͔̮̉́͒̐͒̇́͜ͅo̸̧͓̜̞̬̫̝̺̦͗̇ẘ̷̨̳̖̥̓̈́̍̚.̴̨̹̝͙̖̅͋̉̒͆̄͋̈́͝ ̸̢͖̜̞͓̈́̒̆̈͂̇͌W̶̱̗͎͈̫̉̐́͌̽́͘̕h̴̡̛̝̙̻͓̬̽́̀͛̄͝ͅặ̷̗̦̭̘͖̯̞̼̘͗̏t̵̛̬̳̟̳̯̤̫̦̜̙̂͆̅̔̀̏̀͠ ̵̬̺́i̶̧̨̛̤̺͈̞̼̣͆̉̏̎̓̆͐̃͠f̶̡̛̺̥͙̗̬̪̱̼͚͖̼͓̰̈͂͛̐͛̓̈̀͊̿̚ ̵̛̗̓̅̅͂͗̍̉h̷̛̼̰̦̝̙̦͕͍̟͚͈̦̐́̍́̑͊̏̂̈́̀̑̃e̷̛̖̯̩̜̟̱͇͎̳̰̞͔̿̀̎͊̋̀͋̈́͜ͅ ̴̼͉͖̘̼̝̭̦͈̪̰̃͋̽̿͂̈́̓̂̚͝͝ͅģ̶̡̤̱͇͙̞͈̜̬̞͎͘͜͠ͅe̵̗̳͉̱͇̭͆̍̐̄̀̀̓͝ͅt̴̖̜̻̟̬̑̅͜s̵̥̮̘̑̈́̒̐̑̌̊̀͝ ̴̛̘͕̪̬͓̙͖͕̈͌̈̉͛̈́̄͂̀̕͠ú̷̧̺̥̻̣͙̠̳̣̔p̸͉̮̙̳̦̳͓̘͔͖̫̻̒́̓͜s̵̼̟̞̦̙̺̙͚͙̎̃̈́̂͋̒̅̎̄̃̉͌͊̚͝è̴̛͖͇̔͐̂͆̎̿̈́̀̂͆̏̂t̸̮͔͚̗̳́̈́͊͆͆?̴̞̼̻͖̈́͊ͅ ̶̟̪̺̜͇̘̫̫͙͚̣͎̹́͜H̵̢̡̙̲̗̗͕̦͕͓̮͉̰̝̹́ĕ̷̮͉͍̤͚̞̩͎̰̇͗͊̈́̕̕͝ͅͅ ̵̧̯̱̠͉͖͇̝̀̄̓̀w̴̨̨̡̜̥͇̪͈̘̻͇̲̔̉̉͜ͅo̶͈̮̖͓̳̦͖̭̣̳̦̲̅͑ņ̵̦͖̹̖͎̻̼̬̤̭̤̤͙̈́͊’̶̨̧̛̖͇̯͔̖̞̮̲̲̦̻̾̎͐͗̇̀̇̒̃͌͗͝t̶̢̛͓̲̠̞̯͌͗̀͌̐̌́̏͗͆̾ͅ ̷̧̛͉̰̯̦̆̒̇̿̀̒̍͑̑͝͠͝k̷̦̺̙̲̔̽̾͌͌̎͗̉͘͘͝͠͝n̴̤̈́̔̑̀͒̏̈́̽͋͊o̷̧̺͉̭͇̠̯͚̯̼͕̲̱͒̈̄̇̋̂͆̋̍̈̆̓ͅw̷̬̑̈̒̑̕.̶̛̛̘̻̠͂̕ ̷̝̮̤͕̼͎̏̂̈́̈́̈͆̒̕̚̕Í̸̢̡̠̫̜̮̜͔͇͛̔̽̉̓t̸̫̥̞̙̞͕̼̓ͅ’̶̨̯͓̺̠̝̘͖̯̮̬̱̖͇͌̽͐̌̑̈́̈͗s̵͍͇̭͉͕̣̩̥͕͇͍̭̹̤͍̏̿͌͋͘ ̵̡̡̧̛̣̻͌͛̎̀͒̈́̀͊̍̊̿̉͂f̷̨̛̐̓̂̍̅̂̃̈̕̚i̸̞̙̿̈̊̈́̑̑͘͝͝ñ̵̛̯̜̠̮̤̪̥̙̤̪̊̉͊̂́̐͂ĕ̴̟̭̎͆̈́̾̽̊̄̑͂͝͝͝!̴̧̧͖̹̠̥̲͊̏́͊̉̽͌̿͌̇̓̀

Tommy shook his head, trying to get rid of his voices again before he shoved the inventory into his pocket. It was fine! How would Dream even know they’d gotten a clock? Exactly. He wouldn’t! So there was nothing to worry about. As long as he didn’t find it, everything would be fine. He didn’t need to know how Tommy was counting the days, the hours, the minutes until he was free. It would be okay.

He slowly sat back down again, slightly shaky hands picking up his book again. It was okay. Just write. He reread his page slowly, his thumb rubbing the page gently. He had just finished writing about the presidential speeches, the election. It wasn’t bittersweet memories—there had been nothing sweet about them then, and there certainly wasn’t now—but it was strange. To read about the moment that Wilbur had shifted. It was easier to see, looking back. Easier to see how Wilbur had become manic, how the way he spoke to his voices was rushed, worried... Tommy could practically hear the voices fighting for control over what Wilbur should do sometimes. Hear his own voices warning him about his brother.

He was starting to write about Pogtopia when he heard Dream beginning to move. A soft shuffle, the hint of a yawn. He glanced over before quickly whipping his head to face his book as Dream slid his hand under his mask to rub his face, even offering a soft chuckle.

“Do I really make you that nervous Tommy? What are you afraid of seeing when you look at my face?”

Tommy didn’t reply. Mostly because he was at a loss for words—what was he afraid of seeing? He knew Dream wasn’t angry with him, not trying to kill him. He knew that there wouldn’t be anything scary. After all, there was nothing scary than an angry Technoblade in boar form. So what exactly was it that he didn’t want to see. He really couldn’t figure it out. Or maybe he had, but he was too afraid to say the answer. Instead, he just shrugged, before pointing at the chest.

“Potato delivery, fresh from the dispensers.”

Dream offered another slight laugh before pushing up to his feet and walking over, pulling out the rest of the potatoes they’d been given. Tommy knew he could be taking more. That he could be taking more than his fair share and Dream probably wouldn’t say anything. But much like the extra chance this book had allowed him, he attempted to show his goodwill by allowing Dream more potatoes. An equal and fair trade, in his humble opinion.

He heard Dream eating quietly, though he still didn’t look, simply scrawling down more in his book. Techno was going to rewrite this probably.. his hand writing was less than perfect, and he definitely didn’t write in the fancy english way that the blood god did. Still, he was happy with his current product. It was good, and that was enough. He gently shut it for the time being, before glancing over at the ground next to Dream. The book covered ground. He hummed softly before clearing his throat.

“Hey Dream? What do you think you’d do, if you got out?”

It was a different question than his usual, a definite leap from talking about the past. They never talked about the future, other than in regards to the future of the Big Innit Hotel. Tommy briefly prepared to apologize and offer to stop talking as the sounds of Dreams eating very abruptly stopped. Stopped without answer to his question. Maybe he shouldn’t bring up ifs like that, especially ifs that one of them (and he won’t say which here) considered it to be a when. Even if Dream was acting a friend, he wasn’t going to be so certain just yet right? Okay but the silence was long enough.

“You don’t have to—“

“Check your hotel first, probably. Maybe rent a room while I start making my rounds. Yknow, apologize to people maybe. If they’ll let me. Try to explain. But if that doesn’t work, I want it to at least work for Sapnap. George too.”

Tommy nodded a little, tracing the spine of his book again as he took in the answer. The beginning was so lighthearted.. the whole answer seemed unsure but determined. Something really had changed in Dream, hadn’t it. He quietly fiddled with his journal, waiting until he heard the telling click that the other had his mask back on, quickly glancing over.

“I would... build myself a house. Far out like Techno, maybe, but still in the lands of the server. Lie low.. just try to get back to normal life. Probably not eat any potatoes for a while.”

That drew a laugh out of Tommy, and an understanding nod too. Potatoes weren’t even that good anyways, he was almost certain he wouldn’t be eating them for a long while either. He’d probably have to explain to Puffy the next time she offered him food but.. that was another worry for another time. He smiled a little, pulling his legs in and resting his cheek on his knee.

“Yeah, me too. I’ve never wanted to eat carrots or bread any more than sitting here with only raw potatoes.”

The two laughed for a little while before Tommy opened his book again, with a refreshed and prepared feeling. He momentarily glanced at the screen in his pocket, watching the clock slowly dip towards midnight. Just two more days and he was out... other than eat real food, maybe he should start telling people about his experience with Dream. Maybe just a little longer.. after all, he really was different. Though... you can never really tell with that mask, can you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys! that tommy stream today... guess i gotta tag it canon divergent huh? anyways i’m still planning on finishing what i have! don’t worry your sweet muffin heads :) 
> 
> eat! drink! sleep!


	5. the voice of static

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He gripped the clock tightly, so tight his fingers ached. Soon enough... soon enough.

Tommy rubbed his eyes, blinking away the sleep as he continued to write. He was dedicated—nothing wrong with that. There was something wrong with how little he’d been sleeping, but that would be easily remedied when he got out. He glanced at Dream, who was staring into the lava in silence. He had been acting strange all day. Day six, as the scratches in the wall would attest, though it already felt like weeks. Tommy pulled the small rectangular inventory screen from his pocket, checking the clock that sat there. Early morning.

“Looking at your inventory isn’t going to get you more potatoes Tommy, it’s still a few hours now.”

The voice made him jolt and he simply offered an awkward laugh. He still hadn’t told Dream about the clock. He wasn’t even sure why. Maybe it was because he didn’t want to. Maybe he was afraid Dream would toss it in the lava. He didn’t even think they were very grounded fears but... after the number of things he had owned that had been blown up in exile? Tommy would rather not take chances.

The loud striking of a bell, or something else stupid and loud, made him jolt, totally screwing over the sentence he had just written. He sighed after a moment, rewriting on the line below quietly. The sounds had really been getting to him. They absolutely shut up his brain, the voices, the static, even his own thoughts ran dry whenever the sounds came through. They were terrible, loud... they scared him. Well... the surprised him. No one and nothing scared TommyInnit.

He glanced over at Dream as he heard a sizzling, clearing his throat slightly. The male slowly retracted from the lava, moving towards their sink to dip his sleeve in it before wrapping his arm slightly. Tommy didn’t understand how anyone could willingly sit so close to lava. Maybe the mask helped. Maybe Dream had an inhuman tolerance to pain. Dream walked over towards him, slumping back against the wall before glancing at Tommy’s book.

“How’s it coming along?” His voice was a bit hoarse, maybe a tad tired, but Tommy took little note of these facts.

“Well, Dream, my friend, it’s actually coming along quite fantastically. We’re bout near the point where Wilbur real starts going batty, when he called you—“

D̵̻̦̼̓̆̒̊̋̅̃͐̂͠ǫ̴̻͕̭͔̺̦͔̣͉̗̠̪̝̆̈̔̄̇̽̃͆͆̍̓̆̆́̃͆̐̇́̈́̈͌͒̅̓̂̚̕͘͜͜n̸̛̟͕̰̭̯̖̰̩̯̹̬̜͈̰̬̘͇̰͓̖̱̠̮͕͉̤̰̙̍̋͊͑̋͊̂ͅ’̵̢̢̺̟͚͙̱̣̦̘̜͖̮̹̯̱̤̳͈̤̊̊̑͌̒͂͌͑͒͊̀́͘͘͘̚͜͝ͅͅt̵̛̘̪͖̝̤̹̤͔̮͔̘͛̐͐̍̍̆̉͗̄̓̎̆̎̓͂͛͘ ̶̡̛̪͙̪̼͓̐̀̅̌́̚ṫ̴̢͓̱̝͇͖̘͖͈͍͎̮̙͓̩̖͚͈̣̪̫̺́̀̂̾̀͂ͅë̷̖̬͕͔̺̯͉̹͖͓́͛̐͋̍ͅļ̸̡̛̺̺͚̖̗̯̗̭͈̬͍̱̞̥̻͔̈̅̅̃͑̃́́͊̌̒̓̓͋͘͜͝l̵̢̛͍̙͍̮͓͚͖̗̮͍̒͐̉̆̀̂̈́̀͑̽̃̓̐̂̽̑̓͌͋̌͑̄́̕͘͝͝͠͠ ̴̧̟̞͍̞͚̣̘̥̥̟̮̞̻̹͚͙͖̣͐̊̆̔̐͛̃̿͋̈́̂̋̆͊̀̅́́̿́̂̀̐͗͜͝͝͠͝h̶̡̨̧̡̨̡̙͍̖̟̦̤̙̩̭̱͙̜͇̙̺͔͕̦̼̫̪̥̻͋̏̍̓̎̔̉̾̎͑̐͒̆̚͝ḯ̶̢̛̛͉̝͎͕̲̖̖͔̘͎̰̥̩̦͚̦̱̐̿̓̀̑̏̋̐̎̽̐̽̆̃̽͑̔̅̿̉̈́̽̾̃̚͜͝͝͝ͅm̶̧̟̠̭̤͕̩̲͍̟̤̝̤̝͉̙͕͛͜.̷̡̡̧̘̜̰͍͖̬̯̦͇̗̗̠̂̅͑́̑̿̋͠͝͠ ̵̡̠̩͎̪̦̣͖͕̗̮̜̟̺̎̅̈́͜͝Y̵̩̗͇͚͛́̔̋̐̀́̂̾̀̃̾͘̕͠ò̷̡̺͎̪̯̳̠̱̤̣͈͚̰̮̑͒̓́̏̏̈́̓͘͝u̸͍̖͚͖̺̪̮̱̫͇̪̯͎̠̣̭͒̋͑̓̾͜͜͠ͅ ̵̤̱͕̟̗͓͉̜̖̞̯͎͙͖͎͕̝̙̫̹͙̝͚͓͉̱͓̓͊͛̋̏́̇̆̿͐̐̎͋̆̅̈́́̈̋̄̄͆̑͂̓̀͘̚̚͜͠ͅc̸̢̢̤̹̬̙̣̙̪̥̝̙̻̮͙͙͈̳͕͚̫̜̓͛͋̒̃̉̔̀̈́͗́́̃̐͒̀̽̄̚͜͜͝͝͠͠͝͠ͅḁ̸̮͕̤̣͋́̅̇̃͆̽̿̆̽̎̀͂͆̈́̐̐̊͊̕l̴̢͖͉̮̹̻̝̗̰̫̰̞̪̲͈͔̟̻̠̱̜͉̺̔͐̌͑̾̍̅̊̀̈́͊̿̏͂̅̋̉̑͂̃̚͘̕͠͝ľ̵̢͉̪̞̰̞̙̦̹͉̘͚̹̞͓̫̫͖̮͎̻̒̃́̊́͝é̸͕̤̬̝̀̃̒̍̌͂̄ḓ̶̡̢̡̛̟̪͔̙͙͍͚̙̞̭̯̝̫̦͈̲̪͍̀̍̈́̌̾̋̎͐͆͌̆̓̏̽̈́̀̔͆͆͆̓͛̓̄́̎̊̆̕̕ͅ ̴͖̼̬̻͎̝̮̠͉̹̫̓ͅͅh̸̨̡̡̢̡̩̭̳̖̳̘̲̱̰̻͍̰͔̳̳̘̞̐͜͜ͅį̸̢̛͔̳͍̠̺̘̥̪͚͕͖͍̫̩̪̖̭̅̆̎͆͋̈́̕͜m̷̨̛̜̰̠̻̯͕̺̝̞͈̳̬̙̙͇̩͚̭̞̤͙̆̂̇̔͘ ̵̢̨̛̠̈́̍̐͒͐͒͛̀̓͊͌͘ơ̷̳͓͓̳̯̂̃̄̃̄͗͌̃̾̑̉̕ų̷̡̢̹̰̭̮̯͓̩̦͙͓̭̠̜̬͈̦̯̪͍̦̻̬̘͈̋̈r̴̨̬͔͙̱̣͖̭̗͍̬͚̘̤̗̟͉͇͖͙̲͍͓͈͓̳̭̖͕͌ ̸̨̦̲̩͙̬̠̻͙̬̖͔͇̖́̊̌͛̀̐̐͊͑͛́̒̏͊͝f̵̧̮̖̯͖̯̳̙̙̒͊̓̓͊̐̊͆̽̈́͜ͅr̵̙͙̭̟̍̏͗̆̿̓́͛̒̽̍̐̀̉i̴͈̪̩͚̐̓͐̐̎̓̆̀̈́̅́͋̏̑̽̀̚͝e̷̫̹̹̘̠̥͇̿̀͒́̑̉͊͐͐̑͂͌̈́͐̍̈͂̂̐͊͒n̵̬̙̟̖̜̥̓̓̏d̷̺͙͈̰̗̥̳̯͈͕̫̮͊̂͐̈́̐̑́̈́̍̐͊̓̉̉͘͝͝?̸̛̞͛͒̐͗̈́͠ ̸̧̡̛̛͖̬͙̙͚̜͍̞̠͚̤͓̹̺͚̲̱̻̘͙̾̂̄̎̎̀͋̈́̌̑̌̉̂̿̂̑͂̉͆͂H̸̛̜̠͉̻̙̝͔͎̗̮̼͕̖̠̩͚̻̮̠̠̯̮̥̘̓͊̃͒̑̄̑̓̒̈́̎͛̽̈̋͑̽̓̚͝ë̵̢̩̟͚̲̘̞̙͆̈ ̸̧̛̜͚̥̺̳̯̼̮̝̖̾͌̈́̋͌̆̓̏̀́̓̿͊̓̇̚͝͝i̵̧̡̛̛̳̞̼̺̭̗̼̳̮̲͖̪̞̖̪̰̰̗̯̞͎̦̗͍̹̥̞̇̌̍̐̈́̿̔͛̂͑̔́͋̊̕ş̸̝̭̰̩̝̼̒̀̈́͆̽̄͋̌͋̐̔͗̌̋̈́̈́͘̕̕̕͝n̴̢̡̪̥͍̝͈̭̝͈̩̤͕̩̻̯̜̲̖̝̖̻̮̜͓͖̲̼̒̄’̴̡̛̮̪̣̘͙̦̳̼̞̯̭̗͙̩̅̀͂̿̃̈́̿̎̉͊͑̈̓̈̃̔̓̓̃̍̓͝͠ẗ̸̥̼̳̤̦͇̗͓̱̳̳̥̯̭̻̙̹́͒̇͋̓͛̽̕ ̶̧͎͇̜͕̭̫̱͈̠͚̮̪͖̪͖̖̥͙̉́̆̆̽̀̓̔̚͝͠g̶̨͕̮̯͚̪̘̫̻̤̹̳̗͈͔̫̟̬̹̣͒̈͑́́̀̐̏̏̅͆̅̏̈́́̂̍́͑̎͐͜͠ͅó̴̢̨̞̘͈̞̭͉̠̦̤̱̖̯̟̬̼̜͉̙̮̳̰̫̄̄̏͊́͂́̿̉̈́́̈́̓͘̚͘͘ͅo̴̡̪̹̻̟̳̣͔̔̆̉̂̏d̸̛̛̠̙̺̪̩͆͌̈́̍̐̌̽͒̈́͌̔͒̃͌͋̍͂̌̔̈́̍̈́̒̏̍͘͠͠.̴̡̹͙̯̯̼͇̫̜̝̠̭̠͕̈́̐̀̒̆͂͒͋̂̀͊̐̍̈́͑͂̀̊͒͆̕̕̚͠ ̷̨̧̗̟̮͍̖͉̮̘̻̳̩͕̹̀̄͆̆̀̅͗͂͐͊̍̌̾̔́̑̏̅͘͘͠͝T̸̢̛̰̦̼̖̣͙̿͊͛͂̒͋̆͂͛̐̓̅̊́͑̏̅͒͊̓̈́̄̋͌̚͘̕̚͜͝͠o̵̢̧̫̭͔̥͖̠̙͚͉̩̲͚͕͎̼̭̫̟̬͕͂͜m̴͔͎͂́̅͌͊̌̋̚m̶̡̢̨̼̖̲̯̗̯̠̥̱͎̳͉̟̭̱̻̜̟͕̭̱̮̺̭̰̭̃̀̋̋̑̀̀͜ͅy̴̛̜̙͊͑̆̑̏̂̀̔̀͂̈́̚̚͝,̵̨̨̛͚̫̙̤͓͇̱͙̞̯̰̖̫̻̳̘̯̩͚̤̣̤̲̜̆̀̑͊̋̽̂̆́̓̌̐̉̏͂͛̈́̍̾͗̓͗̓̋͑̋͝͝ͅ ̶̢̡͔͕͓̭̗̠͈̟̗̟̰̇̌̀̓̋͐͑̇̉͗͘͜͜͠ͅḑ̷̡̨̮̙͔̬̙͉̭̬͔̥̫͖͔̖̰̥̬̟̳̎́̿̈́͆̈́͆̾̎͋͗̽̓͑̓͌̚̚ơ̸̛̩͔͚̙͍͈͚̈̒̃̎̏͛̓̏̏̎͌̍̃͋́͘͝ń̵̩̱͓̰̃̈́̑̃͗͛̎́̀̊̎̾̎̕͝͝͝͝’̸̯͔͇̖͕͌̈́͊̏̽̂̂̆͊͋̓́́̓͘ţ̵̢̢̤̬͒̄̿͊̃̈̏̍́́̚͘̕̚ ̷̢̡̡̧͙͙̩̭̼̳͙̭̼͈̱̞̟̩̪̝̳͖̯̼̫͐̾̿͗̍̈́̋͒̀̀͑̆̔̓͊̚͘͘͜͜ṱ̴̢͇̺͙̟̮̭̼̦̻͔̱͑̊̅̎͜͝ͅͅȩ̶̨̛͍̟̜̼̭̩̗̉̆̃́̓͐͒̃̓́́͌̀̊̀̀̽̅̕̕͝͠l̷̨̨̨̛̤͇͔̭͕͇̮͚̮̤̠̱̤̦͔̘͎͎̯͓̬̂̈́͗̇͊͐̇̆̾͌̔̌̄̓͒̌̕͝͝͝͝ľ̸̨̨̧̨̨̛̛̘̘̲̰̺̯̣̫̮̺̘̘͙̰̤̭̜̗̘̻̜̲̗̱̞͖̃̐̓͒̎̔̈́̾͑͗̀̋͐̆̒͛͋͘͝ ̵̡̛̣̗̠̬͚͍̳̆̅͆͛͌̽̌̃̈́̾̿̍̂̀̒̂͊͑͂̎́͐́͠h̶̢̢̗̪͈̭̝̞̞͑͊̓̈́͂̈́̋͆͛̿͆͋̇͜͝i̷̡̬͈̤̙̬̱̻̠̬̯͉͚̟͓̤̯̦̰̍̃̈́̾͋̏͑͜ͅm̴̢̨̨͙̘̖̻̯͎̯͇̫̤̰̜̯̟͚͓͕͈̻̹̠̒̉̒͒͑̏̾͝͝ͅ ̷̻̪͉̫͈͗̀̏͗̌̇̅̉̔̉̅̿̏̂̇͒͌͆͠e̴̡̞̺͚͖̥͙͈̲̜̟̻̤̺̝̹̰̩̓̈́̌́͋̓̔͒̋̅̌̍͐̔̎̚͝͝v̵̢̡̤̝͓̤͍̙̙̮̦͓̞̩̣̪̤͒ͅę̶̧̗͎̭̦̰̪̥̥͖͇̦̺̱̲̤̤̺̰͇̗͇̭͗͐̅̄̐̓̓̉̄̚̕͠͝ͅr̸̢̛̜͇̝̣̦̩̗̯̞̝̼͓̳͎̖͓̖̼̥̹̟͇͓͇̍̊̓̎́̉ý̸̧̖̜̲͍̱͎̤̦̟̻͙͍̙̪̲͔̩͂̈́̽͌̈́t̷͓͙̣̱̻̬̠͉̦̿͂̓̄̑̉͋̽̐̋̾̾̍̅͆͒̍̆̃̉͐͊̈̎́̕͝͝h̵͙̳͓͕̟͙̝͔͕͕̻̙̥̼̼̓̏̑͋̕į̸̲͉̻̗̻̫̪͇͎͜͠n̸̥̣̼̳̺͋͛͆̀͌͐̓͂̾̆̚͜g̵̡̡̥͇͔̬̞͎̯̖̣̥̙͓̱̹̰͉̮͔͉̖̻̠̤̱̼̰̬̩̔̆̔̚ͅ.̷̢̢͙͓̤̪̓͌ͅ ̶̨̛̱͍̤̙̤̦̪̹̝̫͓̤͎͙̺̹̖̈̑̿͂̉̒͒͒͊͂̓͌̉͑̕͜͝͠ͅT̸̖̉̆̋̓̆̐̌̀̑͛̏̉͑̑͝͝͝ẹ̵̡̡̝͔̖̠͓̣̦̰̲͖̱͓̞̬̠̱̤̠̤͖̐̎̿̓l̷̢̢̢̬̼̝̭̤͍̗̩͈̫̺͙̣̰̥̖̘͓͇̗̭̜̞̱̭̐̀͆̾́̄̈͋̃́͒̏̑͗͛͑͂̏̄̈́̿̕̚̕̕͠͝͠͠ͅͅl̶̨̨͔̬̖͚͍̭̮̜͈͉͔̭̗͍͖̬̙̖͙̈͋̇͌̑͋͘͜͜͠͝ ̷̧̧̦̰͉͎̰̘̟̖̻̬̣̠͈̺̻̄͜ͅh̸̪͍̻̿̏͋̄͋͠i̷̜̜͎͎̗̮̼̗̭͉̋̈́̈̓͛́̉̌͝ḿ̴̢̨̛̟͉̖̘͕͖̯̙̮̳̌̈́͐̏̄̅͊͂̔͆̒͑̽̇̀̎̈́͐̕̚͘͜͝ͅ ̷̹͈̬͓̟̩̟̣̞̻͖̻̰̗͉͓͈̭̖͕͖̯͈̪̅͒̀͆̑̓͆̽͛̄͒̊̒͐̇͋͘͜͜͠͝͝ả̴̢̛̞͍̤̮̜̭̬̟̖̖̩̪̭̩͉̲̹͎͎̬͙̔́͌́̏͌͗̓̂̓́͗̽̅͜͝͝b̶̺͚̥̦̮̳͍͓͈̙̟̦̜̻̖̑̊̊͆́͌̌̈́͌̆̄͗̅̍̄̇̆̓̐̈́͘͝o̶̹͗̆͛͌̄͐̉ų̷̛̘̱̹̜̪͎̣̱̹͍̥̤̮͇̣́̽̃͐͒̈̄͂͗͆͆̈́̒͋̊̌̍̿͗̚͜͜ͅţ̵̢͚͔̤̭͈͈̯̬̰͖̘͍̬͖̠̦̻͎̱̣̭͙̀̓̈́̓̓̊͊̀͆͊̌̀͌́̄́̈́̈́͒͗̚ͅͅͅ ̷̡̧̧̬̹̮̮̼͍̫̝̟͙̠͉͎̜̩͈͉̰̟͔͙͙̭̏̈́̎̓͋̅͘͘̕̚͜ṫ̵͈̘͛̈́ḩ̶̲͈̬͓̻̗̤͔̯̪̻̭͉̯̘̔̎̽̿̈ẽ̸̢̛͓̜̹͔̺͖̘̱͎̟̞̥̺͕̩͎̟̼̥̺̤̌͑͒͛͒̊̓͊̋̾̅̿̌̿̉̎͐̀̍̽͜͜ͅ ̵̳͙͚̣̰̜̬̯̠̠̘̫̳̆̓̔̅̊̃̽͋͌͑́̏́́̂͐̓̾̉̀͋͘̚̕̕͠͝͝c̴̖̜͋̍̽̏̿̉l̵̡̨̧̛̼̱̝̹̥͔̦̹͔̠͔̗̺̪̥̜̬̫͕̦̣̟͍̉̋͐͊̈̓͌̊̀͋̐́̀͋̓̿̀̋͊͗̓̍̑̔͂̆̕͘͜ǫ̷̮̝͖͎͓̲̰̱̣̥̙̹͇̦̗͒̂̎͜ç̷̢̢͓̳͇̭̞̓k̷̪͓̬̰̺͉͓̞̼͍̠̤̹̔̀͝ͅ!̷̡̯͚͉̫̘̤̖͎̙̗͈̰̠͍̱̪̜͊̃̍̀͐̄͗̃̈́̅̾͑̀̔̾̓͛̋̆͘ͅ ̷̧̱͕̩͈̮̭͚͖͎̱̠̩͍̻͇̺̜͇̙̀̍̿̋͊̒͛̽̂̇͗̎̔͐̋͆̉͂̑̇̃̅̌͛̐̕͝͝͝͠Ỹ̶̠͍͔̝͈̒̚ò̸̪͓̔͋̽̈́͑̏̽͗́͗̂̔̋̓̃̎͂̃̽͐̈́̊̅͝ų̸̛̙̻̟̣̹̱̰̩͕̼̭̦́̃̇͐̓̂̉̓̑̔̄̑̊̓̄͌̂̇͋̃͒̽̈͘͝͝͝ͅ ̵̛̛͚̦̹̾̄̒́̈́̃̍͒̿̅̍̽͛̂͑̊̕̕͘͝͝ͅĉ̷̢̛̰̬͓̪̦̱̻͖͙͓̠̲̪̭͓̘̟̌͐̍̐͛͛͒̐͒̂͋̈̐́̀̏͑̂͘̕͘̚͜͠͝â̸̢̧̨̳̤̞̺̪̩̣͖͙͔̬̰̦͍̮̈́̂͆́͗͊͋̿̔͒͑̊̂̀̋͘̕n̶̨̛͖͕̪̪̙̺̲̼̈́͂̉͒̈́̓͐̊̇̒͆̏̎̇̂̚͘͜͠ͅͅͅ’̸̛͈̭̪̟̱̿̏̓̔̏̈́̈́͂͐͋̂̒̑͌͐͂̃̈́̃͂̈́̑̕̚̕̚͝͠t̷̡͍͔̮̮͔̘̺͍̻̩̜̤̟̱̗̬̜̠̞̲̟̤͕̭̰̉̑͋͂̊̀͂͋́̏̂́̐̆̂͘̕͘̚͝͝ ̴̬̑̈̔͆͝ļ̵̛͎͍̏̈̔͂̈̓͑͗́̄̐̈́́̇̌̈̐͂̐̆̚͘͝͝į̴̧̢͈̺͓̘͚͕̞̠̬͙̱͉̜̙͙͇̺̼͈̦̯̝̹̺̪̗̎̓̂̈̈̿̏́͒̋̒̏́e̵̫̭̞̻͍̖̲̩̥͓̞͎̭̙̓̌̍͊͂͐̀͑̿͆̀̚͘͝͠ͅ ̷̡̧̨̨̢̢͖̼͓̮̮͍̻̖̗̯̙̺͔͉͙̟̗̙͈̮̞̘̈̓͛̑̊̐͂̈̈́͂͒͗͂̈́̾͋̑͒̈́͛͂̚͜f̶̡̢̢̧̨̹̠̬̱̝͍̗̰̮͍̯̲̥͕͔̝̰̳̳͖̤͂̐̈́̊̃̍̈́̅͛͒̓̿̊̽̓̔̍̔̑͌̓̄́͆͊̉̚͜͜͝͝͠͝ͅo̶̧͍͍̭̜̪͕͖̻̠̭͙͈̖̪͍͙͔͌ř̴̢͖̙̯̣̻̥͔͕̫̱͔̤̰͇͓͍͖̤͉̼͂̿͌͆̆̀̅̀̌̔͊̊̄̓͜͜͜͜͠ͅę̷̨̢̰̼̘̖͈̝̝͉̺̘͚̜̣̥̺͈̰̝̠̺̼̱̫͎̋͐̓͌̓̑́͐̀̌̽̚͝͝͠͝v̴̢̜̩͖̳͉͇̜͖͈͚̘̘̙̼̬̘͇͔̌̎͂̎̾̊̉͋̌̽̂́̓̆͆̕̕ͅe̷̢͇̼̞̩̭̙̔̒̓̉̔̽ŗ̶̜̰̳̜͈̥̝̫̬̫̘̦̖͇̯̞̩̩̝̙̪̪̙͕̩͓̺̱͌̀̿̎̽͐͐͆̈́̃̾͗̀͌̒̀̿̆̽́͌̀̄͑̅̎̚̕͝͝.̷̛̛͇͇͑̔̎͆̀̇̆̀͛̽͊͊͊̓͛́͛͆̍̕̚̕

Tommy flinches, admittedly, a lot more than he expected to. Dream seems to shift closer, reaching out to help him stabilize, though his hand falls halfway. Oh, that does nothing to make him feel better. He quietly rubbed his head, brain aching in a way he didn’t know it could.

“—ommy? Tommy, you good?”

It takes him a moment of staring at Dream before he actually nods, shutting the book and dropping that in his inventory too. “Hunger pangs. Real assholes, yeah?” He offers a laugh that isn’t fully there, and Dream nods his head in a way that doesn’t seem all that believing. Tommy quietly shifts, a bit uncomfortable with this atmosphere that he has so unintentionally created. He rubs the back of his neck before glancing at the mask, it’s calm smile making him feel strangely unhinged.

“You ever hear voices?”

That gets a laugh, one that makes his cheeks heat up a bit in embarrassment and annoyance. He has the urge to curse at Dream, or say something else, but to Dreams credit, his laugh doesn’t seem mocking.

“Not usually, no. Me, myself, and I in the old noggin.” He taps the mask with his knuckles a few times before his head lulls to the side. “Why?”

Tommy bites back a nervous bile in his throat, shifting a bit as if it could make the scorching hot obsidian feel any nicer. Why did he care? Did he really want to relate to Dream? Though, Dream was his friend, it wasn’t the same as when he wanted to be like Phil, Techno, Wilbur. He didn’t idolize Dream. They were just friends. He quietly shrugged before feeling Dreams shoulder bump his.

“Oh, come on now. Big question with no follow up? That’s not the Tommy I know.”

He exchanged a playful eye roll with an unchanging mask before sighing.

“Okay fine, fine, but if you laugh I won’t hesitate.” Dream holds up his hands in mock surrender and Tommy sighs before unloading.

Something about unloading his stresses on Dream seems to make the prison feel lighter, every single time. This was for closure right? Being able to chat with Dream, tell him all of this, it felt like tying up all his loose ends. It was a wonderful feeling really. So he talks to the masked man about the static, the noise, the bothersome voices (which allows the voices to clear for maybe two seconds so they can all simultaneously voice their dismay), he lets it all unload from his shoulders. By the time he’s done, the red stone from above is clicking again, and Dream is reaching over him to catch the potatoes. When they eat, it’s in a silence. A calm, mutual silence.

...

Dream doesn’t put on his mask, even when they’ve both finished eating what few potatoes they were in the mood for.

Tommy doesn’t know why, but just the same he doesn’t look nor ask. He tries to write the story, though he constantly finds himself stuck on just how to describe the war when Wilbur decides his unfinished symphony should stay that way. After all, he wasn’t with either his brother or father when the bombs were set off. He was busy fighting Technoblades withers. He’d caught his brother two times, as the chaos unfolded—once, being killed by their father, and a second time.. a half-ethereal being watching as wither skulls blew L’manburg to bits.

After maybe twenty minutes of struggle, he puts the book back into his inventory, briefly stealing a glance at the clock before pushing the screen away. It had only just reached day, he was sure that outside, the sun was shining over the SMP. He was sure everyone was minding their own on a beautiful day, that Sam Nook and Jack were hard at work on the hotel, that Tubbo was messing about in Snowchester... it was all probably quite beautiful. His head started lift before falling to the floor again. Dream was sitting next to the lava again, though his mask still sat next to Tommy.

‘What are you so afraid of seeing when you look at my face?’

He hadn’t known what to say when he’d been put on the spot, and quite frankly, he still wasn’t entirely sure. Even despite all the hard thinking he’d done, mulling the idea over in his brain. Tommy was pretty sure he’d mostly figured it out though.

A human.

Now, that did sound dumb, and his voices had been eager to part the clouds and static to come together and say so, but it was the most logical answer that Tommy could piece together. Believe him, he hated the answer too, but it didn’t make it untrue. It was so easy to call Dream evil and mean when you couldn’t look him in the eyes. Couldn’t see his expression, or the way he reacted. He was astonishingly good at keeping his body language strong and unspoken, and that made it easier.

It was millions of times more simple for him to see Bad and Techno as evil, when they were going against him. Technoblade often got caught up in passion, his more piglin-esque and brutish features becoming easily more emphasized. Bad was a literal demon of the Nether—sometimes he was startling to look at even when he wasn’t being evil. Even dearest brother Wilbur, he had changed his appearance, the way he spoke, acted... it was easy to separate his brother and the man lost in arsonists fantasies.

But if Dream had a human face, a normal, plain face... Tommy didn’t know what he would do. If his face looked like George’s, or Sapnap’s, or even Quackity’s, Tommy was certain that he would immediately start to feel the guilt. And he wasn’t sure if he could handle it.

The clock in his pocket suddenly started to feel heavy, and Dreams footsteps echoed louder than normal as he moved to the sink again before reclaiming his mask. His tongue felt like lead, and the static in his brain...

D̷̺̩̘͖͇̹̽͌͂͆̄̏̌́̌́́͗̈͑̇͊̅̽̏̄̋͘͝r̸̨͓̟̣̠͈͚̣̬͐̒̒̂͠ͅë̴̛̠̻̦̰͔̬̮̬̠̺̜̬̙̺͓̐̓͋̉̃̾̐̀͑̔͜͝͠ͅa̶̡̨̧̨̢̲͎̯̬͚͍̦̮͍̤̝͔̼͈͖̹̼̣̠̰͇̫̯̥̔̒͂͂͛̚͜m̶̹̬͈̻̠̟͍͕̮̯̃̇̒͆̔̀̿͋͋̓̋͛͘s̶̪̯̽͛̔̎̍̅̄́̉̓͛̏̄̅̌̐̽̚͜ ̷̬̩̤̼̖͙͈̣̣̦͔̀̔̈́́͋́̇̂̊̽̈́̉̅͗̈́̍́̄̃̊̄́̉̇̚͘͘͝͝͝á̴̢̧̼͕̬̼͈̖̥̭̹͖̯̘̣̞͍̱̃̉́̍̈́̈́̐̒̆̈́̓͘̚ ̶̢̢̨͉̘͖͎͚͚͈̮͓̥͈̭̟̠̻̔̎ͅľ̶̢̡̛̞͎̻̻͍͔͎͙͈̝̺̘̲̪̠̖͚̩̟͓̘̳͔̪̻̲̩̤̾̇̔͗̽̔̾̒̓̅͗͒̀̈́̀͘͘i̶̬̠̞̻̬̝͛͆́̆̌͂̐̄̑̽̈͝a̴̙̎̾̔̿̓̉̎̏̂͌̋̒͐̌̐̀̇̄̍͑̓̈́͑̚͠͝r̸̡̠̼̞͕̺̂̒̈́̓͊̍̔̓͆̒̍́̎̈́̔̑͒́͛͘,̵̢̻͔̿̍͋̐̇̿͊̍́͐̔̿͐͐̚͝ ̵̨̧͍̖̹̪̲̣̯̗̜̹̥̠͎̜͓͎̮͚̹̞̦͙̱̺̖̈́͊̀̒͗͆͂̒̈́̾̋͆̓͘͝a̸̬̖̠̞̜͗̿̾ ̷͙͔͛̒͐̍͂͌͊̉̌̃̇̏̃̑d̷̡̢̪̳͖̤̭̲̻̎̅̈̏̈͛̽̏̊͂͌̂i̷̼̟̤̲̭̪̮̲͙̪̥̙͛̽͂͝ṟ̵̨̜̗̻̠͇͔̣̭̮͂̅́̏̊̀̂̇͆͗̿̆̀͘͠t̶̨̨̧̧̧̢̼͔̰̗̘̤̭͉̥̲̮̯̭̲͇͚͈̖͈̞̹̪̀̉͆̈͋́̅̆̌̃̓̇͋̎̍̀̊̈́̿̔́̀͌͛̌̽̚͘͝͝͝ỹ̸̡̛̛͙̈́̆̅̃̈́̅͛̑̐͛͌̃̆͆̄̄̈́̈͆̚̚͘͝͝ ̵̢̮̘̱̭͍̻̮͈̟̳̖̠̍̏̃̉̅̒͊̎͂͘̕̕̕͝͠͝m̵̧̧͍̦̗̤͈̦̗̠͍͔͎̜̱͓͓̭͐́́̅̃̎̉͑̍͊̀̀̈́͒̏͊͑̔͘̕͜a̴̡̖̲̠̱̰̪̘͕̮͉̺̜͓͎͂̏̈́̏̆̌̓̋̈́̿̏̽̈́̔͘͜͝͝ņ̵̧̧̙͕͚̯̰͚̣͍̫̲̻̦̜͍͕̱̪̄́̉͊̎̉̿͐̌̇̑̊̀͋̀͂̋͊̂̂̓́̈͛̈͘͘͠͠ ̷̟̬̼̙̗̩̪̣̜̯̭̬̬̪̻̰̞̦̖͇͂͒̔̉̀̆͌̈́͒̅̽̅̏͜ͅh̵̡̥̤̩̪̰̮̘̘͙̱̹͗̾͌̿̐ȩ̵̢̧̛̹̣͉͎͇̙͓̗̹̻͉̯̳̹̟͎̭̩̟̭͓̭͇͎̺̹͐̂͋̒̂̽̉̋̎̍̅͑͆̌̃͌̅̈́̂͗̾̿͂̌̏͒̔̒͜ ̶̧͙͖͓̱̠̥̀̑̚ͅȋ̵̯̲̙̫̫͔͎̮̜̘̟̜̋̓̆̄̿͋̈́̄̊̏̾͌̀̿͒͛̀͂̕̕͠͝s̶̢̨̡̢͚̬̗͇̘̯̝͎̥̳̫̟̝̲̺͔̮͖͔̪̥̪̻̲̣̉̉̑̏̍̅̏͘͜͝ͅ.̷̹͎͚͂͂͛͆̂̓̽͊̍̅̉͋̐̾ ̶̧̧̡̢̢̛̗̤͇̞̦̭͎̘̗̼̳̪̄̔̀͐̎̑̈́͐͐̌͛͊̽̐͒̑̀̈́͛͘͜͝D̷̨̡̨̧͙̻͖̥̞̫̟͙̟̗̞̤̘̖̠̻͕̎̈̍̀̄̒̄̑̄̕͝ö̶̧̨̹͖̤̲̫͔̒̈́͑̽͗̾͐̇͆͛̓́̈́̚͠͝n̸̡̛̹͔̖̠̳̤̗̙̤͖̺̠͇͇͓̮̯͔̳̹͇̝̣̮̞̝̙̉̑̊̿̀̾̒͊̍̈͛̓̒̀̏͛̊́͌͆̂̅̀̚͜͝ͅ’̷̦̻̰̼͚̥̼͊̄̒̄͛̀͒͗͊͊̉̊̃̅̊̈́̀̎̋͘͝͝͠͠t̷̘͊̋͂͛͆͐̈̂̔͌͊̈́̄̈͊̐̇͋̒̓̅̚ ̵͚̞̼͔͖͎̙̫̯͇̘̖̮͔̱̯͚̫̆͌̂͗͐̈́́́͌̄̀̈́̋̀͆̆͌̃̾̀́̚ͅf̸̡̢̢̘͎͎̺̜̘͓̖̫͔̬̹͖͚̥̠̫̺̭͙̭̥̆̋͑̿͛̓̈́̔̔̈́̔̆̎͊̏̽͆̈̀͒̐̂̀̏̈́̔͆͘̕͜͝ͅe̸̢̧͕̭̖͔̠̥͔̼̮̥͖̩̥͓̻̹̦̤͎͈̫̭͓̤͍̽e̸̢̧͇͇͙̦̝̝̼͚̹̩͉̫̰̠͓̠̲̤͖̭͙̦͕͈͇̞͊̅͒̀̉̉̽̔̾̊̌̓̈͛͒̎̃̒̆̾͐̀̀́̍̋͂̚̚̚͝l̶̦̲̮̤̫̿͂͐͂̈́ ̶̨̢̙͉̗̻̤̲̭̝̠̲͙̬̱͖̟̪̪̟̹̉͜͜b̸̡̝͇̗̪͔͙̣͈̠̩̟́ͅa̴̛̬͒͐̌͛́̾̄̽̾̽̐͑̑͊͗̄̓͆̈́́͂͌͂̈̈́̕͘̚͠͝ḑ̷̨̡̡̧̻̼͈̦͚̮̝̬͕̠͎͈̯͕̲̬̣̤͕̻̈̉̓̓͋͝!̸̢̥̯͚̩̘̼͈̭͕͉̣̖͇̬̰̘̜͎̆̍̇̅͗̉̑͗̌̇̐́͌͝͝ ̶̛̬͎̙̻̩͔͎͚̱̫͍̱̙̬̞̇̂̓̎̆̈́̈̈̾͐̓̾͊͊͑̄̈́͊͜͠ͅB̴̢̢̛̛̛͍̯̘͉͉̲̮͙͓̩̻̬͇̜͖̭̥̱̬̮̐̋͗̄͂̎̍̀͐́̇̉͛́̈́̍̈̚͘͘̚͜͝͝l̸̢̞͓͓͍̼͓̙̭̠͔̻̫̮̲͚̩̙̘̜̘̺̝͙̈́͛̑͋̋͊̿̔͂̚ő̴̡̱̺̗͂̿̽͐̍͐́̓̈́͑̋̃̍̂̅̍̈̎̄͋̓̅͆̀̔̏͘͝ǫ̷̛͈͙̺̫͕̯̹̥̰̬̙̿̓̓͆͌͆͆͋̀̈̉̆͌̀̀̍͌͆̇̕͜͝͝d̶̨̛͎̮͚̻̼̰̰̹̰͎̯͎̠̺͌͐̉̑̏̉̈́̏̒͆̏̄͂͋̄͛̏̽̎͒̍̃̀̽̕̚͠͝ ̸̫͕̲̳͇̻̄̓̈́̇́͌͌͛̎̆͋́͗̉̀͊͘͘̚͘͜f̵̢̧͔̜͔̠̺͍̜̘͙̭̙̦̝̹͓̦̭̗̮̹̬̱̝̠̱̍̄̔̈̌͗͌̔́̇͒̍̒́͋͛̈̑͂̌̏̓͜͝ǫ̸̨̻͔̺͇̱̝̳͎̙͕̏̋̌̂͆͋̓̍̇̀̽͋̒́͆͋̊̈́̍̎͐́̋̑̿͗̚̕͘͜͝͠r̵̛̛̟͑̔̐̃͌͋̏͑͆͐̍̃͐̎̑͂̈̐̍́̀̀̍͑̄̾͝͠ ̸̧̺͕͔͓͎̦͍͙͐̀̄̊́͆͊͒̈́͊̾̃̽͂̾͗̓̈̌̎̓́̊̍͆͌ẗ̷̻̝͙̦̻̻͔̦͉̤͍̝̦̿̇̌́̆͑̈́͆̿̐̋̅͐̄͊̐̀̇͆̌̚̚̕͝ͅh̵̨̢͙̦̱̲̯̤̤̙͓̆̋̏̒͊̽̑̅̂̎̋́̄͗̊̋̅̍̏̕̚͝͠ͅê̵̛̛̯̑͋̈̽̉̉͆̊̀̎͛͑́̏̀̀̄̿͗́͗̚͜ ̸̜̲͎̰̩̱̘͑̄̃̈͐́̋b̷̧̨͈̖̹̪͎̜͐̌͊̂͊̒̂̓͂̊̾͐̓́̈́̿̃̿̓̔̊̈́̇̕͠ͅļ̸̛̛̘̬͖̫̖̝̠̦̺̜̹̣̬̗̂̍̈̑̎̑̄̓́̀͂͗͊̇̀̒͐͂͒̍̀͘̚̚͘͠͝o̷̢̡̢̤̟̬̥̬͓̜͔͙̣̯̙͎͓̻̬̲̰͚̬̟̎̑͐͛͗̍̐̈́̑͂̂́͂̈̈́̎̀͑̇̀̂̓͆͘͠͝ͅo̴̢̨̧͖͖̺̣̜̞͕̪͙̝̣̥̰̦͙̞̪̲̙̼̤͙̠̜̙̊̀̄̅̈͛̿d̷̛̘̟͍̰̀̊̏͠ ̷̡̡̧̨̙̫̙̦͇͎̝̖̼̬̖̩̪͔͍̀͛̅̌̂͌̂͐͐̽̚͠͠g̷̝̰̟̯̖͍̮͇̻̹͈̬̱̦̟̥̳̯͌̉̂̔́̊͒͊̏̏̀͆̈́͊͋̈́̆͛͜͜͠͠͠ͅơ̵̢̡̡̡̛͖͉̣̼̭̠̙̱͂̓̆̋͊͐̈̈̌̆͆̃̇̓͆͐̀͛͘͝d̵͎̞̥̗̘̭̲̝͎͊̾͒̕.̸̛̛̛̗̘̱̯̼̅͆̓̐̾͐͑̽̿͋͛̿̈͗̏̃͑͒̃̈́̋̈́̍̎̊̆̾̕ ̴̧̨̡̧̧̼͚̜̖̮͍̜̩̪̼̺̱̝̠̞̬̳̜̭̻̘͍͎̊͜͜D̶̢̧̧͓̩̘̦̠̱̜̱͕̦̟͚̥͂̄̈̌̿͜͠r̸̡͖̜̭͗̋̈́̀̅̑͆̄͐́͊̾̿̋̀̈́͐͝ę̶̢̨͚̱͓͉̥̞̺̼͔̗̰̫͓̥̪̉͋̔̽͗͌̃̏̊̓̃͌̀̃̀͋͋̄̿́̌̾͛͑̅̀̂̃̕͠͝ͅã̷̢̡̟̝͓̖̙̯͖̰͚̳̟̖͎̼͉̤̀̒͐̈̿̿̏̈́̈́͆̆̆͋̃̍̓̏͑̀̈̕̚̕͜ͅͅm̷̧̧͇̜̙͉̦̪̣̤͉̖̠̞̯̤͙̻͔̦͆̑̽͑͒̅̏̔̔̾̀̑̔̓͛͐̉̉̾́̋̍̈́͘͘ͅ ̵̢̡̡̡̨̛̛̦̹͈̼̖̳̲̼̙͎̰̙͍̝̪͙̜͕̝̗̦͋͐̑̄̏͋͛̈̌̈́͗̄̉̃̏̾́̀̽̀̀͛͠͝i̷̧̨̥͖̬͉̤̲͚͕͔̲̰͖̘̰̦͕̺̼̓̇͂̆͋͑̀̇̉̑̈́͆̓͐̈́̂̂̚͜͜ͅş̵̨̨̘̯̟͕͍̠̻̘̰̥͍̅̉̃̉̈́͌̈́̈̏̀͠ ̵̡̧̛̻̙̱̤̺͕̜̝̘̩̈́̂͐͌̽̉͐̏͂̈́̀͑͗̀͝l̷̡̛̛̤̺̺̰̰̼͕̩̭͐͒̔̏̊͐̂̓̽͛̀̔̌̍͛̒̄͛o̴̧̧̡̡̨̧̖̭͚͚̗̪̱̻̪͎̫͎͇͈̜̠̯͔̣͉̭͚̥̪̥̔̿͗̈́̎̈̎̈́͊̔́͛͆̈́̀̀̕͝n̷̢̝̱̰͉͔̱̝͎̘̯̼̼̝̳͚̲͈̗̣͙̗̜͚̱͆̐̒̿̓̇̃̀̌͒̔̃̈́̒̕̕ȩ̴̟̘̜͕̳̩̩͚͎̞̗̼͈̍̅͝l̵̡̡̢͖̯̤̥̮̺̫͉͓̙̣̠̻̠̮̮͕̰̭̥̜̪̣͍̜̿̉͜͜ͅy̶̧̧̹̼͍͖̘̣͖̲͙͕͎͖͎͉̙̭͈͙͖̝͕͈̣̤͍̭̖̾̄͌͛̂͆͑͒̕͘,̷̨̨͓̺̜̠͇̗̳͉̣͔̹̰̣̤͔̪̫̱̐̄͗̍̅͒̓͊̋̇͒͒̄͝͠ ̴̡̦̩̣͇̗̼̲̻͎̯̥̻͆͂̏̽͐̕y̴̨̡̢̢̛̳̫̹̻͕̗̦̝̫̥͎͐̃͊͊̀̉͆̽̿̅̏͒̌͛͐̌́͠͝͝o̷̢̪̭̹̺̟̱̺͇̦̳͇͎̲͛̍̈̍͛̈́̈́͘̕ư̴͉̰͖͍̜̹̣̼̻̦̠̼̩̭̦͇͖̹̾͒̊̃́̓̃͆̈́̑͛̇͘͠ ̸̡̨̟̝͖̱͙̞̝̭͙̬͖̞̹̟̻̯̭͎̱̱͕͍̩̭̠̣̣̌̏̀̆̐̇̓̊͐͊̂̚͜͠ͅt̴̠͈̲̪̲̖͋̐̊̍̂͗̂̈͒̃̽̓͑͗̊̈́̅́̀͐̽̕̚̚͝͝͝͝h̸̡̛̳̼̺̘̬̮̙͕̙̻̰͕̹̬̙̗͕̹̦̖͓̰̤̥̲̆̽́̓̓̋͑͂͗̏̃̒̄̇͋̔̈̎̇͒͑̎͘͜ͅi̸̢̢̛͍̲̘̯̥̣̮̞͈͇͇̝͕̤͙̼̅̍̓́̅͐̏̐̇͗̌̓͆͑͌͗̇͆̽̏͆͛͌̀̒̕͘̚͝n̷̢̧̧̧̳̦̠͔̤̣̩̝͔̮̳̤͊́͑̑̓̊̿̏̆̿̒͠ͅk̴̡̨̛̟̠̣̙̠̫̞͉͔̟̲̻̬͎̩͚͙̰̐͂͗̑̆̂̄̒̇̽́͂̋̿̍̋̏̐̆̓̒͂͜͠ ̷̡̛͉̦̥̤̹̹͂̐̋̓̃̀͘̕͝ͅḩ̵̘̠̙̰̭̮̹͙͙͉̟͇̝̬͌͒̈́̇̾̽̏̀͗͒̆͂ę̴̘̱͖͖̜̥̫̼͓̟͔͚̤̗̲͈̟̘̙̖̭͓̫̼̇̒́̇͐̅͒̾̉̏͠ ̸̨̛̛̛̮̼̺̭͕̞͓͇̟̟͇͔͙͓̬͐́̓̿̈́͑͋͆̈̂̏͑̓͂̽̄̿́̕͜c̴̡̧͖̫͙̖̬̗͎̪̤̺̣͓̣͇̻̦̮̥̘̀̐̀̓͒́̂̿̑́͂̉͗̉̚͜͝ͅơ̵̡̛͓̰̠̜̩͔͙̹͚̦̔̐̈́̋̐̇́̅̓̿̎̆͒̀̀̌̄̀̾̈̔̑̽͝ȗ̶̗l̷̛̛̛͕̗̹̉́̀͊̿̋̈̈́͆̉̂͗͛́̆̈́͊̂͌̾́̉͊͑̚̕͜͝͝d̴͉̦̬̪͉̩̗̖͈̲̜̟̣͑̆̅ͅ ̵̡̧̢̧̛͙͚̖̱͙̺̪̘̳̲̩̝̯͚͇̩̩͚̞̺̘̖̻̗̻̼͋̀̓͊̇̓̽͋̉̀̃̊̇̇̉̋̓̄̓͋̈͐̋͝͝ȩ̵̢̡̨̫̩̤̪̟̳̗͚̩̗̥̹̩̟̜̟̜̳͎̳̲̄̓́̂͐̊̌́̌̒̒̃͜͝͠ͅv̴̦̹̔̎̓͆̇̃̿̿̓̈̔͌̄͋̑̀͑̇̓̓͗͋̐̌͘͠ͅȩ̸̧̜̮͖̻̦̥͇̫̤͇̜̲̻̭̺̪̠̻̯̭͚͔͕̞̜̱̪̲̅́͗̈̊̄̾̆͂̃̆̒̏̀͑̈́͜r̶̛͂̆̄̾̓̿̃ͅ ̷̛̙͇̹̜͕̟̜̣̞̝͙̞͍̺̭̤̩̍͆̐̾̍̆̾̽͌̀̍̀͆̏͑̔͛́̀̋͗̈g̸̦̺̟̓ë̵̛̩͈̹͙͚́̃̃̀́̒̓̀̍̓̏̄̂̊́͋͜͝͝ͅţ̴̡̥͔͔͎̘̤͇̞͔͔̦̮̩̙̻͚̹̗̺̝͇͖͈̩͛̊̒̅͒͗͂͜ ̸̡̛͇̱̹̖̻͈̟̟͉͔̺̽̆̉̈̋̈́͑̅̈́͒͋͑̀̄͊̄̽͛́̾͂̚͘ͅa̵̢̜̳̠̠̠̜̯̮̩̩̞͇̺̼̫̮͓̪̳̠͎̺̿̂̏̀͘ͅ ̶̙̞̺͕͍̗͙̤̬̈̃̊́̏͌̓͛̍̈́̑̓͠͝p̸̨̢̡͍̙͔̺̦̭͕̗͕̲͉̘̖̜̙̒̋̓͆̊̍̒̓͌̔̈́̇̕͜͝͝͝͠͠ͅͅͅr̶̨̧̮̰̭͖͎̲͔̖̮̖̖̺͍̬̬̦͔͌̈̉̈́̀́̈̏̂̃̽͂͋̍̋̅̒̈́̕̕͜͝͝o̵̢̡̨̝̠͔̟͖̗̺̝̮̜̻̻͖͔̘̫̭̮̟͔͎͎̺̜̠̘̓̅̔̈̒̓̃̂͛̒̐̂͌̏͆̔̈́̔̍̈́̋̉͗̆͊̋̔̔͋͌͝ͅb̵͕̱̤̜͋̆̍̓͂̊̌̓̽͝͝ả̶̱̣͕̙̬̣̻̭̲̮̝̬͕͈͚̯̐ͅt̸̰̃͂̂̾̊̐̓̓̑͘i̴̭̰̺̹̥̝̟̍̂̔̆̔̋̈́̕̚͘ơ̸̛̼͕̻͕̲͖̲͚̳͓͔̺͖̩̜̥͔̙͙̬͕͚̟̩̝̯͇̫̽́̎̃̓̽́̇̅͗͗͋̀̔̐̊̏́̚̚̕͝͠n̸̖̼̳̙͉̗̞̤̺͓̘̼͉̱͎͈̦͇͖͕̖͙̭̟͔̆͛́̑̄̊̔͊̈̿̀̿̒̓̌̆͒̎́̏́̽̉̎̐́̚̕͝͝ͅͅ?̷̡̣̘͔̞̯̯̯͓̦̰̦͂̆̓̔̓̽̊͂̈̽̑͂́̓͐̿̌̊̕͜͝͝ͅ ̵̡̞͚̬̝̟̯͍͙͈̙̬̙̲̻̞̰̱̻͇̱̐̀̈͊͐̓̍̑̔̈́͛̐́̇̊̃͜͜͝ͅO̵̢̨̢̯͖͍͎̩̩͕̹̩̰̪̓͐́͗̉̌̉͘̕n̷̝̗̅̋́̓̌͛̋̐͌͆̈́̇́͆́̈́̄͒͌̒͝ͅe̵̛̯̜̼̞͌̍̈́͆̕ͅ ̸̡̧̡̮͙̻͎̳̰̞̳̰̖̖̻̯̠͍̪̖̭̹͇̌̈́͑̓́̿̾͂̈͌̐̋̄̋͊̀̓̈̉̀̽͒̍͘̕̕̕͜m̴̢̛̫̝͕̯̜̦̖̗̪͉͇̯̗̜͌͑̀̽͂̽̿̓̎̀̌̌̍́̓̈́̄͛̚̚̕͜͠o̵̡̡̹͉̰̖̤̝̥̺͔̻̥̼̖̖̝̮̼̞͙̺͓͙͖̝͋̓͒̀̾̔͆͋́̓̋̅̃̎̐̀͒̕̚̕͝͝͝ͅͅr̴͇̦͖͚̝͖͔͍̰͂͗̀̂̈́͗́͐͐͛̍̍̔̈́͘͝ȩ̷͕̱̲̫͊̀̏̇ ̴̡̧̨̥̣̜̗̮̤͖̼̺̞̪̫͙̗̹̞̦̲̻̪̮̫̳̰̺̭̻̒̆̒̑̒́̅͠ͅḑ̵̭͚̳̯̜͚͍̭͔̲͎̅̈́̈́̾̿̾̀̑̊̽͂͒́̊̒̂̕͝͝á̸̡̺͉͔̬͚̯͉͚̱͙̟͙̰̜͇̙̩͕̫̙̲̠͖̻̣͖͓͛͂͊͑̋͝ͅý̴̢̢̡̳͉̬̜̹͇̩̺̪͕͙̗͕͈̞̼͕̠̥̜̦̍̃̇̐̾́̊͒̈́̇̚͜!̵͍̯͎̹͕͍̪̭̳͔͎̳̺͚̹̞̘̗̣̺̫̤̳̟̯̺̖̝́̉̆̇̎͌̐̅̐͒͌̈́̃̑͘͘͠

...well, it wasn’t quieting down anytime soon. Dream sat down next to him, his hand ruffling Tommy’s hair lightly, and the blonde quickly looked up at the mask, staring for a long moment before slowly curling on his side next to him. He needed a nap.

...

The nap was long, and comfortable. At some point, Dream had moved Tommy’s head onto his knee for the added comfort. He could almost imagine the green hoodie as something softer, a blanket of sorts, and the book in Dreams hand to be a fairytale that had been read to him until he slept. As the blonde stirred, the book was shut though, and he was shifted off so he could stretch out. Tommy had the vague taste from a dream of his own in the back of his mind, but none of the details were clear enough to be called to mind. Strange.

He stretched out, rolling his neck slightly before he leaned back. He resisted the urge to check the clock, just letting his head fall back before he softly sighed and rubbed his face. Blue eyes flitted about their cell, but nothing had changed. Everything still sat in the same spots. The small and constantly evaporating pools of purple tears were still dripping and sizzling. He glanced at Dream, who’s mask stared back almost inquisitively.

“You think I’ll get out soon?”

Dream seemed to contemplate it, before shrugging slightly.

“Soon enough. I’m sure no one out there would forget you, Tommy.”

Tommy nodded a little at that. Surely not. Sam hadn’t abandoned him, despite the deep pit in his gut, he was sure Sam was just trying to resolve the issue with the prison. Making sure it hadn’t lost its inescapable title. Tommy rubbed his arm slightly before nodding again (more self assuring than ever). Soon enough didn’t seem to be soon at all though. A full week. He.. he knew what he’d signed though. After tomorrow, Sam couldn’t keep him any longer. A week, and then no matter what, Tommy would be free. He smiled a little at the prospect, before listening to a slight yawn echo behind Dreams mask.

“I’m going to take my turn now, alright Tommy?”

He nodded to the other, who slowly slumped back against the wall. Tommy pulled out his book, idly trying to write some, scribbling side notes about asking Philza for help on some details when he got out. He wrote until he could count four seconds between the jail-birds breaths, and then pulled out the clock. Not just a glance in his inventory this time.. no. Tommy wanted to feel the metal against his skin, press the engravings. And he did, he relished the feelings of his single object, softly admiring how the sun dipped below the edge. He had no idea how the clocks always knew, envied how they carried out their functions without an ounce of help.

Not that he, Tommy Big Man Kraken Innit, had ever needed (or wanted help). He was just that—a big man. You ever seen Big Man Techno, Big Man Quackity, ask for help? No. Obviously. Sam was a big man too, even if he had needed help after an egg incident (of which Tommy never asked the origin, only helped Puffy lug the hybrid home), but that was different. It was the egg, after all, and Tommy knew that thing was just... whatever.

He glanced down as his fingertips ached, softly letting go of the clock. Had he really started squeezing it that hard? He hadn’t mean to. It just... happened. His eyes flit to Dream and he felt his hand twitch again. No, no, no no... Dream was a friend. He didn’t want to hurt him. Still, when Dream looked so vulnerable, asleep and slumped back.

Ḫ̵̛͈̖̩̟̻̟̮͇̈́́̓̉̒̄̈́̏̿̈́̇̌́͛̍͂̐͐̿̾̈́̓̑̌̋͐͌͗̏̑̄̔̈́͐̌̿͐̌͌͂ư̵̢̛̯̙̗̪̰̯͙̠̙̖̯̣̫̿͑̎̈̀̎̉́̇̈́̽͂̍̈́̊̈͗̊̀̄́̅̒͌͑͊̉͘͘͘̚̚ṝ̵̡̡̱͔̹̻̼̻͖̤͖̙̹̩̱͕̠̟̪̺͈͔̜̲̦̖͍̠̪͐̌̽͑̋̈̾͋̆̓̋̃̌̀̀͒̋̌́͆̈̃͑̃́̂̄̽̄͋͐̈́̓̚͘͜͝ţ̴̢̧̺̤͖̳̣͎͚̱̰͎̯̫̭̥͈̥̯̫̜̮͈̟̺̩̙͚͙̖͇̥̯̰̙̠͖̙̦̪͍̲́͌́̿̿̏̈́͌̍͐͋͒͒̑͋̋͐̈́̽̕̚͝ͅͅͅ ̶̨̧̯̞̼͈̼̻̫̦̭̹͙̥͓̤̣̣͖̘͉̫̮̳̣̖̗͇̬͕͔̋͊͑͒̈́͊̀͂̃̽̿̋͜͝ͅͅh̷̨̨̧̡̨̰̻̭͓̠͔̫̰̲̖̮͔̮̦͖̳͈͕̦̠̯̹͙͇̩̱͎͎̦̠̮̪̦̝̩̩̮͓̩͂̏̇̀͑͐̐̂̓̈́̇̋̈́̎̒̂̓̒͗̊̉̽͐͌̔͌̀͌͌͒̌̓̎̾̓̋̆͒͘͘̕͜͠͝͠ͅͅi̷͇̼̯͍͇̤͓̭̅̇̆͒͆̄̿͗̈̊̔̅́̅̒̑͘̚͜ͅͅm̵̛̞͙̬̤̪̣̠̩̍͌̽͂͒̄̋̾̾͐͐̍͑̅̌̅̈́̎͆̅̊͊̔̆͗͛̌̈̓̍̓̆̒͐͌̋̌͑̇̑̓͝͝͝ͅ.̸̢̢̧̛̛̛̛̦̝̺̬͎͕̽̈̉͗̿̈͊̽̿̓͗̔̐̀̈͐̋́̔̄̅̓̓̈́͌͆̈́̚̚͜͠͠͝ ̸̡̧̛͔̰̳̺̫̮͔͔̭̲̾̎̋̒͛͐̀̐̎̚͝K̴̢̢̨̡̝̻̯̗͚̱͚̙͍͓̺͇̭͍͓̟̣̥̦͈̞̞͕͕͚̘͖̩̮̝̰̭̳̠̣̿͜ī̶̧̛̙̪̱͈͍̫̰̬̙̺̹̥̻͇͚̝͂̐̀̍̈̄̉̄̑͋̇̇͐̃̐̃̔̈͛̉̎̊͛͋͑̐̓͘̕̕̚͝͝l̵̻͓͕͇͎̥͙̱̹̖̹̟̣̑̉̉̏͗͗͑̉͊̓̓̄̐̉̑̍̀͊͌͊͌́̐̕̕̚͝l̷̨̡͖͉̤̙̯̮̩̭̺̣̤̖̟̳͎̤̭̻̞̯̭̦͕͍̮͕͔̬̰̱̙̮̳̩̭̻̜̽̃̈́̾̄͊̏̔̆̀̔͆̋͜ ̷̧̨̧̨̧̯͚͕̯̲͇̞̹͚̳͎̫͍̰͇̩̼̲͔̤̳̦͖͖͙̗͉͎͇͕̠̣͔̪̤̌̀̎̈́͂̋̇̒̂͋͗̉̈́̐̓͋̄̈̑̈́͛͆̆̃͐̉͌̕̚̚̕͜͝͝ͅḩ̴̨̛̦̝̪̹͍̙̠̝̤͇͇̯̲̲̟̫̝̘͚͓̮̺̙̱̫̘͙͗̋͌̿̑̌͐̂̿̊͒͊̏̈́́̽̂̊̍̓̈̊̕̕͜͠i̶͖̫͈̥͉̣̱̮̬͈͖͎͔̬͓̰̳͙̲̻̭̣͚͔̺̺̻̭̼̳̙̜̖͍̮̅̓̓͆̐̈̎̆͂̈̕ͅm̷̧̛͇̺̼͚͉͕̰̠̮̳͉̟̈́̇̓̈́̋̎̆͌͆̔̕͠͝.̷̢̡̨̢̡̛̛͎͎͍̮͍͍͙̻̟̯̘̗͕̦͕̖̜͖̻̼͎͉͓̫͇͙͉̺̖̙͇̥̮̖̼̦̲͈͇̫̑̓̂́̾̂͛̈́͆͋̔̎̀̈́̈̀͗͋̓̓̎̇̚͘͘͝͝ͅͅ ̷̡̢̨̨̨̛̣͍̹̬̩̭̥̘͉̼̻̭͎̗͉̤̺̙̣̻͇̟̻̜̤̣͍̼͔̣̹̺͕̯̩̐̋̊̓͑̈̅͐̓̈́͂̾͂̑̄͑̿̈͂̈́͆͂́̕͘̚͜͜͝͝͠ͅͅK̸̡̧̛̛̠͍͇͎̘̦̝̖̹͖̘͍̮̻̫̯͖̝̱̥͖̲͌̎̉̿̌̆̋͊͂̈́̽̈́̍̈̍̆̐͐̓̆̑̈́̂̑̈̂͋͆̓̎̀̏̀̌̄̈́̐͆̚͜͝͝i̶̡̧̡̛̲̘̰̼̹͓̪͈̬͖̱̗̘̘͎̲̘̟̻̔̿̊̈́͌͗̀͛̓̈́̈́̎́̆͛̽͌͂̈̐̕͘͘̕͠l̷̡̝͙̤͇̝̜̪̺̼̯̩͈͓̬͓̥̗̩͓̻̊̊̂͆̂́̚͝ͅl̶̨̯̳̣̙̟̘̮͍̯̤̥̙̪̹̏̆̈̌̑ ̵̧̡̢̨͕̫̣̱̖͚͚̼̮̭̞̤͓͍͈̤͈̲̼͙̟̜̘͔͓̳̤̦͍̪͖̠̈́̀̕ͅͅͅͅḐ̴̨̛̛̹̩̙̙̥͍̟̪͉̜̺̥͔̼̭̙͔̱̻̮͖̗̅̀̏͌͆̓̒́̀̓͑̏̽̔͂̉͂̃͐̆̽̈́̃̊̍́́̀͂͂̈́̒̐͒̊͆̂̚̕̕͝͝͝͠r̵̡̨̪͈̪͖͍̻̬̳̺̤͇͍̰̣͉̝̅͂͒̌̍̔͌̎̋̾̋̓̿̄͌̇́̐͌̄̎͛̊̈̓̂͒̅̓͒̅̾̏̇̄͗̔͘͘͘̕̚͜͠͝͝e̶̢̡̡̢̨̫̺͍͉̠̩̙͓̠̟̳̪͉͎̪̺̩͕̪̭̘͇̥̰͔̙̱͙̹̞͈͚̲̙̬̖͊̊̓͑̍̐̋̀͌̽͒͜͜͜͜a̴̢̝̹̪̱̰̻̣͕͖̲̠͖̰͍̯̱̹̯̋̔́̀̋̌̃̒̈́̚͝ͅm̶̧̧̡̛̛̭͚̟̼̭̫̰̱̬̥̰̖̦̞̦͔̯̮̖̩̠͚̘̙̉̏̏͒̈́̏̊͒̒͆̓̐̊̿́̌̑͑͗̊̀͂̅̕͘͜͜͝͝ͅͅ.̴̨̢̯͚̘̟͍͙̯̥̠͇̦̥̘̱͎̩̥̮͖͚͚͍̬̗̙̹͍̭̻̹̜̭̻̦̰̻͔̓͒́́́̈͋́́͗̅̿͘͝ͅ ̷̡̢̨̢̳̳̗̠͍̠̱͖̰̹̹̝̦̹̟̥̱͕͍̪̮̪̟̳̻̭̞̬̙̣̪̞̘̟̠̥́͊̓̊̀͂̍͋͋͆͌̂͐̓̐̚͜͜͜͝ͅḐ̸̡̡̧̢̛̛̛̭̣̻̰̺̯̬͚̹̯͎̟̥̩̜͍̥̯̖̭̹̘̮͈̻͉̗̞̪̻̎̀̊͐͗͌̃̇̍͛̀̂̔̇͗̿̌́̿̀̃̒́̚͘͘͜͜͝ͅơ̸̢̢̨̨̲͇̝̘̙͔̹̯͔͎͍͓̲͕̝̳̰͍̦̰̘̥͉̈́͗́̑͐̌̿̏͘̕ͅn̵̡̲̲̺̖͇̺̱̖̤̫̪̫̱̯̠̤̘̙̗̫̮͕͎̦͆̆̇̽̇̎́̊̆̄̓͛̒̏͒̆͑̎͑͛̈̈̂̐̈́̊͒̄̈́̈͂͊̀͝’̶̢̗͖͍͍̫̱̹̜̤̭͎̫̺̣̲͚͇̬̻̣̜͚͚̌̈͒̎͗̔̀̄̇͋̓̍͊̐̆̆̊̅́̀̏̀͌̉͠͝ţ̵̢̢̨̛̛̯̱͇͕̦̙͖͍̺̻̙̜̲̠̥̜̹̯͕͎̰̤̞̘͇͖̲̿̔̃̉́̎́̍̈́̑̾̈́̓̈́̏̑͆̇̏̀̊̓̊̾̈̀͗̅̋́̋̓̓͂̓͝͝ ̷̡̡̧̛̺͉̣̞̤̣̩̩̹̻̯͚͎̣̱̫͉̲͕̙̼̺͓͓͇̦̭̟̊͑̒̊̊̂̓̐̄̐͊́̕͜͜͝ͅͅh̸̢̛̛̫̺͉͔̣͖̮̼̜̯͓̺͍̬̠̙͈̞͖͔̦̬̤͙̤̱͉̩̜̥̹̱̪̼̀̅̑̈́̂̀̐̈́̂́͌̂͑͌̔̔̓͒͂̓̎͒̈́̊̓̽͂̓̈́̿̀̓̄̽́̈́́͗͋̃̕͜͜͜͠͝͝ͅų̵͇͍̮͖̏͌̌̃͌̌̍̑̐̇́͐̿̏͘͘͝͝͝͝ṟ̶̙̺̩͕̥̐̑̃͜͝t̴̢̧̢̨̹̻̩̰̝̦̭͓̩̖̟̤͎̜̝͙̟̗̼͍̙̣̿͂̈́̏̓͊͝͠ͅͅ ̶̡̺͓̰̞͇͉̫̪͇͗̚ͅͅḩ̸̧̛̼͉̩͍͎̱̳̭̖̱͒͊̓̽̓̄͂̓̀́̌̈́͛̄́̉̿̈̈́̕͘̚͝͝i̵̧̡̡̧̢̯͕̩͈͎̞͖̝͚͇̣̞͔͈̟̳̟̜͈̙̙̙͈̩͇͓̜̱̲̼̤͓̩̮͗̄̾̌̀͐̐̿̆͌̃̀͛̈́̀m̶̡̢̨̧̜̦͓͉̳̤͉̭̣̥̫̺̖̺̟̥͔̞̱̙̹͎̠͈̺͍͔̱̖̣͙͚͓̲̳̠̹̫̓̀̀̎̌́̂́̍̔̀͑̀̈͆̈́̋̅̃͋̉̾̓͐̾̽̓̍̓̀̌́͒̏̒̏͒̂͒͜͠͝͝ͅ ̴̡͎̪̳̥͓̓̈́́̏̒̀̀̊̒̎̅͋͐͊͒̌̽̀̀̈́̈̈́͑͂̀́̈̀͛̐̔̽͂͗̓̆̕͘̚͘͝h̵̡̢̧̛̜̦̞͔͈͓̥͍̼̺̝͙̳̣̹̙̰̪̖̙̹͓͖͉̳̭̙̣̝͙̺̦̙̰̜̘̘̆̇̅̈́́̊̑͆͑̓͌̎́̓̈́͗̐̽̈́̅̚ͅͅͅe̴̢̛͓̲͚̗͓̝̺͋̿̈́́̽͗͗͛̈́̀́̐͑͌͗́̍̇͂͊̓͆͊̏͐̆̑̍̓͆̑͋̋͗̉͑̽̒͠’̶̛̞̥̠̣͇̓̉͆̆͆̾̏̍͋͊̓̂̂̇̒̃̊̀͊̕͝ͅͅs̶̡̡̝̼̺̤͚̰̖̜̠̠͇̜̰̺̮͈͔̥͔̙̳̫̺̉̌̒͋͘͜͜͝͝ ̶̛̛͉̭̬̱̫̱̭̭̤̘̺̥̲̪͉̖̫̹͔̖̅̿͂͂̑͒̐͒̀̓̓͌̉͋̆̑͗̌͛̑͛̌̅͋͋͗̆̕͘b̴̡̢͖͕̼̱̹̞̙̦̺̰͍̮̥̼͔͚̞̝̩̫͉̦̘͕̭͎̻̜̖̻̮̙̉̓͑̇̑͆̋̍͊̈́́́̋̈́̐̋̉̇̄́̅̽̐̿̚̕ͅͅẽ̴̢͇͙͖̱͚̩̼̳̤͕͕̰̣͓̮̣̝̓̽̽̈͊͊͒͂͗̿̀̏̈́͑̿̽̈́͛̓́̾̀̔́̀̍̕̕͜͝͠ĕ̶̼̦̣͚̠̤̗̦̼̼̞̥̘̳̤͚̉͒̎̄̑͛̑̾́̌́̓̇̀̓̂͊́͘͘n̴̡̡̦̤̩͓͙̘̱̘̝̰̺͇̮͉̻̭͕̦̳̘̺̖̜̠̤͉͝ ̵̧̡̛̩͎͓͔̳͙͎͍̣̪̫̞͚̱͎̫͓͎̝͙̤̮̥͉̹̘͓̏̑̈́̏͊̌̄̿̑́̅̽̔͑̇̀̃͘͜͝ͅͅͅͅn̷͈͙̱͍͓̜̬̈̉̓̍͊̽͗́̈́̄̐̃̾̈́͆̓̐̂̐̃̅͐̚̕͠͝į̵̛̛̛̬̝̬̗̳̦̙͙̟̮̫̭͍͇̯̳̗̬͕̦̟͈̼̭̖̖͕̮̥̙̝̱̳͙̠̞̗͂͂̍̀̋̒͛̓̈́͆͋́̇͐͐̓̂͌͘͘͘͜͜͝͝͠͝č̶̢̛̼̤̫̟̺͓̞̞͇͇̿̇̑̏͛̓́̌̃̉͛̏̒̎̌̉̉́͛͂͑̾̈́͒̒̀̔̚̚̚͝͝͝͝e̸̅̈̌̐̀͊̋̄́͂̆̋̇̅͘͘̕͜͝!̷̨̛̭̮̼̣͔̬̝̌͆̇͗̓͂̉̑͑̏̋̿̐͋̋̎̀̀̌̓͊̿͂̀͌͋͛̽̍͒̚͝͠ ̴͎͔̟̗͙̦̟̻͇̪̺͕̤́̉̊́̚D̷̨̨̛̖̬̪͉̰̲̭̭̹͚͎͖̤̻̜̜͈͇̣̯̺͓̫̠͓͖͇͈̗̞̭̪̥͚̻̝̈́̂́̍̅͌̐̀̍̈́̈́̉͂̉̋͛̅͗̾̒̏̌̉͌̾̚̚̕̚͜͜͠͠ͅr̴̢̧̧̤͖͍͖͙̫͍̦̥̩̟̣̝̹̜̘̝̭̹̱̳͔̼͐̽͗̊͗͆̄̔͋́͊̋̈́̓̀͗̍̊͗̅̍̈́͆̀͘̕̕ͅȩ̷̢̧͔͎̳̳̼͕̞̪̜̜̞̜͇͉̼̤̮̰̘̏̓̌̇̒͂͆̇̿̽̔̀̀̈́̀͊̆̚̕͝͝͠͝ͅą̷̡̢̢̛̭̜͈͎͔̖̖̦̐̀̊̉͑̈́͛͌̊̾̈͛͑̇̾̃̃͌̈́̒̂̓͆̄͋̓̽̅̇̃̓̋͋͘̕͘̚͜͝ḿ̵̢̛̜͍͇̪̳͔̖̰̝̥̗̠̱̩̻̺̩͇̝̘͙̀̿̎̿͆̑̈́̿̊̽͆̆͌̿̊̉͒̋͋̃̕͝͝ ̶̨̬̪̲̤͚̦̼̫̘̜̰̠̞̠͌͊͌h̵̢̨̧̖̤͖͔̞͇̟̤̭̮̰̱̬̭̫̼͖̖̗̱͉͚̼̼͕̤̙͖̮̥̯̮̩̗̥̪́̎͛͌͐̋̏̊͑ͅͅą̵̨̧̧̛̦͕̯̖̲̙̲̫̦̬̞͙͈̙̙̙̻̞̬͚̬̪̰̬͉̞͎̰͓͎̮̞͚̄͐̑̊͆̓̄̄͋͌͆̋͜͜͝͝ͅͅs̷̡̛̖̯͙̭̄͐̐̂̈́́̍̔̉̍̎̐̚͝͝n̵͚̅̋̈́̋̔̓̃̐͊̾̆̄̒̔̈́̇͑̃̃͂͗͒̈́́̀̏̃̌̉͛̚̚̕̕̚̚͝͝͠’̵̧̧̧̥̜͎̣͎͕͓̻̯̞̞̰̜̼̞̠̽͒̾̊̂̐̓͆ẗ̷̟͇͙̽̅̉̒́͑͗͐́̽̽̾̔̈̾̂̃̓͌̾̈́͛̔͑͘͝͝ ̶̲͔͓̞̣́̈́͋̉̆͌̔̈́́̂̈̍̉͘͘͝͠ĥ̶̖̠̥̹̲̤̫̻̥͖̙̤̤̲͈̭͚̣̭̫̠̰̑̂͜ư̷̛͈̯͖̯͐̑̿͊̏͋͂̑̅̊̒̃̾̓̌͂̑̌͠͝r̴̢̧̨̡̨̧̛̲̥͖̮̬͕̻̖͓̪̝̞͕̝͉̗͎̟̣̝̤̭̗̹̗͎̹̖͙̭̯̭͚̩̅̊̃̄́͛̏̾̊̐̀̉͋̆̇̀̓̇̎̀̇͂̒̾͑̆̂̓͊́̋̇͘͘t̵̲̰͚͎̘̟̟̳͙̱̫̲͖́̊̇̂̆̑͊͑̃͛͊̏̽̾̾̃́͑̆͛̔̋̄̑̽̈́́̑̆̏͗̊̒̾̋̈́́̋͒͌̑̿̕͠͝ ̸̧̧̢̢̨̧͙̩͕̹͉͕̘̰̟̥̲̣͉͙̬̰̟̲̳̝͔͍̣͈̀̍̀͗ư̵̧̨̛͖̮͔̰͔̘̱͇̟͕̪̤̙̼̯͉̜̝͎̦̦͎͉͚̙͙̬̝̖̭̑́͒̓͂͗̿̎̐̏́̔́̿̕̕ͅͅŝ̷̡̧̡̢̢̧͚͖̗̤̹̝̘̱̩͈̬̮̗̝̟̙͉̞͇̘͚̫̝̣͔̫̻͐̉̌͒̅̎̉͑̑̐͒̉̈́̀̍̋͆̀͋́̂̎́͆́̕̚̕͘͜͝͝.̵̡̢͎̘͈͉̯̬̙̫͍͕̳͕͖͎͚͈͔̲̱̠̦̹͍̬̞̭̬̭̟̳͍͔̳͒̉̈́̅̒ ̶̨̩͙̩̯̩̪̯̣̞͖̪͎͔̖̣̗͇͓̪̠̝̣̦͈͓̯͚͖̳̹̞̮̠͋̓̀̕͜ͅJ̴̨̡̧̧̢͓̯̣͎̞̟͖̞̙̯̭͚̱̭̗̠̮̼̹̯͉̫̲̜͉͚̰̪̜̘̰̯̥̈̀̏͌̑͆̕̚͜͝ͅư̵̛̗̝̲͚̦͖̗̠̫̜̰̲͍̗̪͕̦͔͙̬̮̼͕͈̱̟̯̣͔̗͙̂̃̎͛̈́̃̋͑̇̐̈̽̌̌̌̾̌̔̌͒͒͂͛̂̀̕̚͜͠͝͝ͅͅs̷̨̡̮̝͓̮̣̩̭̼̗̙̖̱̯̥̥͙͈̤̰̖͚̣̺̹͉̺͖̩̺͑̀́͊̏͘̕͜ͅť̴̨̛̹͇͓̜͉̠͎̰͎͑̇͊̆̓̔̐͗͂͂̓̉̀̎̈̍̎͗̍͌̓́́̓̌̃̀̚̚͝͝ ̸̧̧̢̨̪̦͇̖̬̠̩̭͚͔̻̪͍̝͓̞̈́̃̃͛̉͌̀͒̓̀̈́̿́͂͗̇̑͊̽̽̾̉͌̂̅͋͆̋̍̽̈́͋̓̄̇̓̚̚͜͜͝͝͝͝ͅḩ̴͔͍̫̣̦͈͇̣̣̗̳͉̩̥̝̭͔͇̮̇̓́͛̐̃̓̍͘i̷̢̨̡̨͚̪̖͈̠̰͇̣̪̲͍̥̗͇͇̺̱̮̗̱̰̣͇̹͔̹͉̠̘͉̪͙̝͎̣̰̐̽t̷̡̧̧̡̨̢̰̱͇͇̦̠̪̞̗̫͓̫̲̦̲̖̮̻͓̖̹̣̬̠͈̲̲͙̹̖̘̙̞̤̫͙͐͝ͅ ̸̨̨̨̧̞͓̱̦̮͍̜̘̭̜͇̘̫̣̟̘͎̜̖͈͎͎̻̹̙͚̪͉͔̥̮̭̭͙̲̫͍̳̼̥̦͑͘͜ͅh̵̛̛̖̙͗̐͗̽̀̒͊̓͑͊̈́̏͂̀̍̐̐͌̅͒̈́͒͝͝ì̶̛̛̛̛̛̲̦̖͕͚̞̱͚̼̘̓̒̃̓́̽̓̓̐̾̅̅̊͛͋̔̆̀̅̂͆̅̃̽̀̐̍́͛̑͂̍͑͆͘͝͠m̷̡̡͖̥̳͈̱̤̲͓̭͕͍̠͓̪̮̻̣͕̘̝̭͖͉̠̹̯̱̬̩̓͑̓̑̐̈́́̀̍͆̌̔̂̇̊̕͜͝͝ ̸̧̝̼͖͔̯̠̦̲̭̭͚̝̱͕̣̱͖̣͍͕̟̳̖̝̜̮̩̫̺͚̳̮̯̣̥̲̻̜͖̎̅͜ͅͅͅw̷̢̡̡̨̡̨̮̼̟͍̺͎̹͎̪̜͎͔̦̝̝̭͍̤̻̯͖̭͈̫͙̦̬̪̩̙̣̗̖͈̰̙̘̑̿͆̈̓̍̌̈́̓̎̄̓͑̊͌͆́̂̐̈́͊͘̕̕͜͝ͅͅi̶̛̛̛̯͉̲͇̘̝͓͌͊̓͐̈́̄͆͛́̉͋̔̈̾̾͑̑̎̄̏̒̑̈́̇́͂̀͐̒̔̂̚͘͘̕͜͝͝͠͝͠ͅt̴̢̧̨̨̰͇͙̣̻͍̙̻͎̥̲̝͓̹̯͇͍̬̻̩̳̲͚̙̋͂̄̈́̀̆͐̎͝͝ͅh̶̢̻̭̯̠̩̖̘̗͖̭̪͕̮̫͑͋̐̉̃̔̅̆̇̀̇̍̐̈́̾̊̈́̂̄͒͛̑̈́͛̚͘͘͝͝ ̵͔͇͔͉͆͝ͅt̷̨͉̭̭̼̩͈͇͇̜͔̩͔̺̯̣͙͎̩̣̩̳̫̼̼̼͈̣̮̦̀̾̂͌̌́̈́̽̊͂͐̾̂̋̈́̅̈́̈̚͜͝ͅͅh̵̝̰̎̇̓̀͝ȩ̸̧͇͔͓̹̪̻̣̬̠̺͖͙̱̣͍͇̰̬̖̮͕̺͖͔͖̥̜͆̎̓̎̓͋͌͆̾̀̈́̏̿͐̑͐̉̓̓́̒̾̀̀͌̏̽͘͘͠ ̴̨̘̯͙̜͇̙̯̪̤̈͋c̴̦͎̥̘̩̺̏̾̚ļ̶͙̪͕̜̹̪̲̖̱̗̫̱̈́̄͗̌̍͑̂̿̅͒̌͛̾́̋͒͋͋̓͒͜͜͜͠͝͝ǒ̵̧̢̢̨̢̡̲̼̗͈͙̮͚̤̯̠̘͎̲̹̰̖̬͖̙͕̠̥̘̤̫̪̥̬͇͈̲̲͛̾̅́̾̍̐̔̀͊̈́͛̍̒͊́̍̊̌̅̓̈̈́̂̋͌̈́̄̔̔̍͆͑̍͘̕̕͜͠͠͝͝ç̶̢̢̨̨̧̡̛̠̭̻̠̻̻̜̤̙͙̠̗͚̘̼̮̫͎̪̼͇̞̯̼͉̤̩̳̂͂͐̈́͛̃̿͗̑̍̿̇̿̋̊͌͋̌̃̃̏̈̒̈́͗̈̓̎̈́̊̽̽̌̒̚ͅķ̴̢̱̲̗̦̘̖̜̻̞͉̻̯̮͇̯͎̪̩̙̥̖̭̩̹͓̬͈͚̱̝͔̻̺̱̮̦̎̒͜ͅͅ!̸̛̛̛̖̦͚̟͖̰̘̦̗̭̫͈̳̯̜̫̞̮͈̲̞̖̙̦͙͈̹̤̿̿̈́͑͑̄̏̒̆̒̓̓͐́̆͂́̄̅̀̉̐̈́̄̇̈́̉̀̿̈́̓͂̑̐̏͒̚̕̕͘̕͘͠͝ͅͅ

_**Do it.** _

Tommy could feel his body shaking as his hands lifted, gripping the clock as he stood in front of Dream. He didn’t want to hurt Dream. He didn’t want to kill Dream. He could feel his throat tightening slightly, a heavy lump settling. Sam would get mad. Everyone would get mad. Dream wasn’t even a fully bad person. He was a friend!

“Dream.”

His voice was weak, but he could see the other starting to stir. His hands shook until he dropped the clock, which definitely stirred the other. He could see the other tense, before his head whipped a bit wildly. Tommy shivered slightly and then slowly fell to his knees as Dream picked up the clock. He could hear Dream moving, feel the male grab his wrist. At first, he thought it was to help him stop shaking, being helped to his feet slowly and walked towards the lava. Dream let go as the crossed the border, and Tommy stared at the other as he tossed the clock into the lava. His eyes filled with tears and he watched the other open his arms, which had Tommy rushing into a hug. The clock was gone but... but Dream was okay.

“It’s fine Tommy. Let’s just get rid of it okay?”

Dream didn’t ask when he got it. He didn’t ask what he was doing, he didn’t ask anything, he just hugged Tommy. And that just made him cry more. Even if Dream was angry... he didn’t say anything. He got rid of the clock, and despite the pit that left in Tommys stomach, it was okay. It was okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi guys! thanks for reading again! anyways, holyy, we have a whole 165 kudos, and over 1.6k hits!! that’s so crazy, thank you all so much for reading :]!! it means the world to me. sorry this took a while to come out, but i hope you all enjoy it regardless!
> 
> eat! hydrate! sleep at a normal hour!

**Author's Note:**

> this is really just tommy apologist brain rot... can’t apologize for someone who isn’t wrong though /j
> 
> i think this particular one will only be a few chapters long, but i have a vague series arc planned, and i hope you enjoy. (don’t forget to hydrate, i see you)


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